


Le Raconteur

by lemonmermaid, quartetship



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Anal Sex, Illustrated, Light Bondage, M/M, Nothing super scary though, Oral Sex, Paranormal, Voodoo, ridiculously happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:49:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonmermaid/pseuds/lemonmermaid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartetship/pseuds/quartetship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a chance encounter with a mysterious and intriguing storyteller, Jean begins to wonder if people in his peaceful new hometown are really who they seem to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of a seven part (?) story. Idea is a collaboration with the wonderful Deb, tumblr user[ lemonorangelime](http://lemonorangelime.tumblr.com/). Many thanks to her for permission to bring this story to life!
> 
> There is an implied paranormal/reincarnation element in this story, but most of the speculation is left to you (and Jean!)
> 
> Also, very personal side note, but I envision this as taking place in Louisiana, mostly because I have an obsession with the culture that surrounds the New Orleans area. Feel free to think otherwise, but I just kind of think of this as a bayou tale.
> 
> \--

**_Who's got something going on tonight?_ **

Jean sent the text to about half of his contacts, but over an hour later, he had no response. The sun was still up, the weather still muggy and warm as the late August evening set in. He changed out of his work clothes and frowned at the still-dark screen of his phone. Was there really nothing worth doing that night, or was everyone else just too damned busy to get back to him?

It was a question he found himself asking far too frequently. Offered a position as a branch CTO of his company's smaller division in the city of Maria, Jean Kirschtein had accepted the job and transferred that spring, just before his twenty seventh birthday. He liked the income - and the spacious condo that came with it - but he missed being busy with friends and getting the occasional date. He'd managed to make a few decent acquaintances in Maria, but most of them worked with him or for him, and few of them ever had any decent ideas for what to do with their spare time.

It was for that reason that he spent most of his down time in coffee shops, the local park or just at home - slumped over his sketch book and listening to the people around him. That had always been his favorite subject to draw, his favorite pastime since childhood. Unbeknownst to his coworkers, he even kept a few pencils and a pad of drawing paper tucked inside his desk, for days when work was more mundane than usual. But the city of Maria offered him little inspiration, with its quiet streets and laid back people, and his art block had led him to rely on the guys from the office for entertainment at work and even on the weekends. He glanced back at his phone, and saw the tiny light in the top corner flashing.

**Missed call: Connie Springer**

Jean hit the 'return call' tab on the screen and turned on the speaker as he slid a pair of jeans from his drawer. The line picked up after only one ring.

"S'goin on, boss?"

Connie was a coworker, one who worked directly under Jean and directly across the hall. He was also Jean's closest friend within the city limits, despite occasionally being too annoying to tolerate sober. Jean could hear the smile in Connie's voice; he sat down to peel off his socks and began to wonder if calling him back had been the right choice.

"Nothing worth talking about. What stupid shit are you grinning about, Springer?" he asked. Connie gasped in mock offense.

"I'm trying to offer you something to liven up your sad, mediocre-ass existence. But not if you're gonna be a dick about it."

"Ah. Alright. _Wow_ me."

"Sasha and I are going to the park to listen to the guy that tells stories there on weekends. Come with?"

"Stories?" Jean laughed, lying back on his bed and nearly shouting to be heard. "What are you guys, _eight?"_

"No, dude - this guy is seriously bad ass. His name's Marco. He's there almost every weekend. Everybody loves his stuff. You won't _get it_ unless you hear him, though. Come check him out."

"I've seen him there before," Jean said dismissively. It wasn't a lie; he'd noticed the storyteller in the park several times, always with a group of people huddled around him. He'd even considered sketching the small crowd before, though he'd never gotten close enough to do so properly. But that kind of kitschy thing was everywhere in Maria - a performer on every corner - and none of it was of much interest to Jean.

Connie scoffed a laugh. "But you've never _listened_ to him, have you?"

"No, Connie, but that's beside the point. Look, I'm not third-wheeling with you two just to hear some weirdo tell lame ass scary stories to a bunch of kids."

"Because you've _definitely_ got better things to do, Mr. Group Text."

Jean sat up and shouted in the direction of the phone. "Hey, I am your superior, little man! You can't talk to me like that!" It came out as more of a whine than he'd intended, and on the other end of the line, Connie dissolved into laughter.

"It's Friday at six thirty in the evening - I ain't gotta answer to nobody right now!" In the background, Jean could hear Connie's wife Sasha's voice, shouting something indiscernible. Connie quickly amended his statement. "Yeah, except for you, baby!" It was Jean's turn to laugh.

"Just come with us," Connie continued. "If you hate it, fine. At least you won't waste your night at home. But I think you'll be surprised."

"Surprised if I don't fall asleep," Jean sighed.

"Whatever, man. Starts at seven, so see you in a bit." There was a click, and then silence as Jean pulled himself to his feet, grumbling to no one in particular. Three years from thirty, and he was going to spend his Friday night listening to a stranger telling spooky stories.

He really needed new friends.

\--

"The people had never seen such massive monsters! They rushed to barricade the walls while children hid and women screamed. But it was too late. The colossal giant had already destroyed the wall, and soon the village was overwhelmed by the others. The people ran for their lives, but many lost them, as the giants swallowed them whole by the dozen. They battled them back but they could never wipe them out - how do you kill something with no heart, no brain?! The people were forced into tighter and tighter spaces, living on top of each other like rats. The monsters even began living _among_ them, hiding in human form and striking like snakes when the time was right. There was no way to know who was dangerous, and who was your friend. Sometimes, they were one and the same. From the day the walls fell and onward, the people inside lived in fear. Walls can be rebuilt, but people cannot. And some monsters can't be defeated."

 

The storyteller sat in his usual place, perched atop a blanket on the roots of the park's largest tree. The crowd around him was bigger than Jean had ever seen it before, all listening intently as he finished his tale. Jean spotted Connie and his wife sitting at the edge of the throng of people, and settled beside them.

"Took you long enough to get here!" Connie whispered, punching Jean's arm playfully. "You've missed a couple of really good ones."

Beside them, Sasha nodded in agreement, then cupped her hands around her mouth. "Encore!" she shouted. "One more, one more!"

Soon the crowd was chanting with her, demanding another story. The man named Marco smiled.

"Alright, one more tonight," he conceded. Connie and Sasha grinned at each other, and then at Jean. Jean huffed, but listened to the speaker without further protest.

"This is another one from the village within the walls," Marco began. "The story of a soldier boy who was killed - _murdered_ \- but who could not truly die." The audience murmured excitedly. Marco grinned, and suddenly the story seemed far more interesting to Jean. He watched with captured attention as Marco began reciting the tale, his speech never faltering for a moment, like a firsthand witness to every word he wove.

"The boy knew he had been killed. Half of his face, half of his chest, his entire arm on one side were all missing. His bones jutted from his chest, holding together what was left of him as he bled. But he felt nothing, nothing but emptiness as he wandered through the village where he'd been murdered. He reached out to everyone, every person he passed on the street. Animals chased him, children ran in fear of him, telling tales of his horror to each other. But no adult ever believed them; none of them ever saw him. He continued wandering, isolated and unseen, back through the village to find the one person that he hoped could hear his cries."

Marco looked out at the faces of his audience. Children bit their fingernails and curled against their parents. Couples held hands, exchanging excited, anxious glances. Jean sat, unaware that his mouth was hanging open until Marco's eyes fell on him. The other man's face seemed to _glow_ , even from a few yards distance, and Jean had to force himself not to stare. He snapped his mouth closed and swallowed. Marco's gaze lingered for a moment, studying Jean with a pause in his oration. But it was only for a moment; he pulled a confident smile and continued his story.

"On his way, the boy saw many of his friends, but though he reached for them and called their names, they heard nothing. He watched them fight, watched some of them die, but could do nothing to help them. He was trapped, locked in the remains of a destroyed body, unable to rest. He wandered on, still looking for his dearest friend."

Marco's words flowed like bourbon, and Jean was quickly intoxicated. He abandoned trying to talk to Connie or watch the people in the crowd, and let himself enjoy the rhythm of the storyteller's voice, all at once loud and smooth as it filled the air around them. As the light began to wane for the evening, Marco's face remained perfectly visible, as if softly lit from within. Jean missed large portions of the story, too busy watching the way his skin glowed in the hazy darkness.

"When the boy finally found his friend, he was overjoyed to find that his friend could see him. He reached out to him, but when he turned and his friend saw the blood and bones and the _horror_ of his damaged body, he collapsed in fear, unable to look at him."

"Oh no!" someone whispered. Somewhere in the back of Jean's mind, he registered that the voice had been Sasha's. He himself was too busy imagining the scene Marco's words had painted; he shivered as it flashed before his mind's eye, as clearly as if he'd seen it himself.

"The boy remained for many days, desperately hoping that his friend would speak to him again. He sat near the other boy's bedside, watching sadly as life went on without him. Then one day, he heard his friend's voice, calling out to him just as he had to everyone else in the weeks before; he went to him, without pause. When he found him, his friend was on his knees, angry and frightened that the battle he and the others were fighting seemed lost. The ghost boy knelt beside him and waited, until the others got to their feet and continued to fight. Reassured, the boy's friend stood again, this time looking the spirit straight in the face. He thanked him, and held an arm out to hug him, but the ghost boy began to drift away before he could be touched. _'Thank you,'_ he said, and disappeared, finally able to rest."

Marco finished his tale to applause and scattered shouts, some asking for more. With a good-natured shake of his head, he pointed to the sky, indicating just how dark it had gotten since his story had begun.

"It's getting late, so no more tonight. But I'll be back tomorrow evening if you'd like to come again!" The crowd clapped once more, softly this time, and rose to their feet in groups to leave. All around him, Jean heard children asking their parents to return, and teenagers recalling their favorite tales. He stood quietly himself, stunned by how little light remained in the sky. _Where had the time gone?_ Connie's voice chipped away at the silence.

"So what'd you think, man?"

Jean nodded, unsure of how to answer. Sasha leaned between them and giggled, poking him sharply in the ribs.

"He thinks Marco's a hottie!" she teased. Jean stepped back and frowned at her.

"I didn't say that! I don't even--"

"No, you didn't have to. You staring a hole through him the entire night spoke for itself."

Jean scowled harder. "I was _not_ staring at him. I was _listening_. I thought that was the whole point."

"Well you're a really good _listener_ , Jean" she said with a wink.

"Yeah, I am. Now let's just get out of here so we're not stuck in traffic behind all these damned teenagers."

Sasha huffed. "Aren't you even gonna go say hello to him?"

Jean stared back at her. "Why would I do that?" he asked incredulously. He didn't want her to know that he'd already entertained the thought himself. He glanced over to where Marco had been standing, waving to people as they left - but he was gone. The blanket had disappeared and the crowd still stood in clumps around the bare ground that it had covered only a moment before.

"Looks like you missed your chance!" Sasha pouted.

"Right. Well, I'm not gonna miss my chance to beat the rush out of here. See you guys later if you're sticking around."

They walked back to the parking lot together, Jean wading through his thoughts while Connie and Sasha laughed to themselves about something behind him. When they reached their cars, Connie yelled a goodbye and Jean nodded stiffly. "Yeah, see ya!" He called back, then added - much more quietly - "and thanks for the invite."

The drive back to his apartment was automatic. Images of giants and ghosts replaced the street signs and pedestrians along the way, and Jean was home before he knew it. With no appetite and a full mind, he closed himself off in his bedroom, turning off his phone and drifting off to sleep with the storyteller's words echoing in his thoughts.

\--

_Ashes. Dust. The smoke of destroyed buildings and distant, dying flames. In the haze, he's walking down a street he's never seen before, but he somehow knows every turn before he makes it. Other people in strange outfits pull the injured and dead from the wreckage around him, and he walks past them all with little regard. When he comes to yet another body, propped against a building along the side of the street, he pauses. For a moment, it is unremarkable, just like the many others littering the the ground. But then he recognizes what's left of the face, even though in the back of his mind he knows that he couldn't. And then he's frozen, staring down at the remains of a friend he's never actually met, robbed of breath as he mumbles a name._

_'Marco?'_

 

Jean sat up with a start and shuddered as the air hit his sweat dampened skin. Looking around he remembered where he was - home, safe in his own bedroom - and collapsed backward into his blankets with a shaky sigh. The scene from the dream was slipping away, but he grasped at its edges and struggled to commit as much to memory as he could.

_Marco._

That was the storyteller's name, the man from the park that Jean only knew of in passing. A man to whom he'd never spoken, or so much as been within a few feet of. Yet somehow in his mind's eye, the few features he'd seen on him were obvious on the corpse he'd pictured in his dream, and a deep sense of loss still twisted in his chest at the mere thought of that sight.

He rubbed a hand across his face and reached blindly for his phone, still fumbling in the faint light of what he blearily realized must have been very early morning. He turned it on to check the time, sighing impatiently as it powered on. The icon at the top of the screen indicated new text messages, and he slid his finger across it to open them.

**_Looking for something to do tonight, boss? Reiner's having drinks and wings at his place for the game. You in?_ **

Jean blinked at Connie's message a few times, trying to remember if he was free that evening, or what day of the week it even was. What came to mind instead were Marco the storyteller's words, reminding his audience that he would be back to perform for them again the next night. Jean tapped the screen to bring up the keyboard, and responded before he had time to think better of it.

**_No thanks, man. I've actually already got plans for the night._ **


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO excited to post this chapter, because I have the absolute privilege of showing off the illustration that goes along with it.
> 
> Many thanks to Deb, (tumblr user[ lemonorangelime](http://lemonorangelime.tumblr.com/) and AO3 user [ lemonmermaid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonmermaid/pseuds/lemonmermaid/) ) for her absolutely gorgeous artwork that accompanies this piece. If you haven't already, you should follow her on tumblr and tell her what a wonderful human being she is. :)
> 
> Please enjoy the latest installment; more will be on its way soon! :)
> 
> \--

"They called her a witch - a _monster_ \- and decided she could never be trusted again. So they captured her in a ruthless attack, luring her out into the open with lies, striking her to the ground and leaving her helpless. She was cornered - forced to face the truth about herself and reveal it to all of them. In desperation, she locked herself inside a giant crystal, trapped for all time inside its shimmering walls. She would be forever still, forever as beautiful as she had been in life, and forever harmless to the people in the village. But even as the gem rose around her to swallow her inside, a boy watched from behind the others, vowing that he would one day shatter her glittering prison. A dozen or more lives stood between them, but he was not afraid; his friends didn't know it then, but none of them would be his first kill."

 

Jean patted his leg softly to applaud along with the rest of the storyteller's audience. It was the final recitation of the evening; the stars had begun to dot the darkening skyline and Marco had already told a trio of eerie tales to his excited listeners. The night seemed to have crept in unannounced amid the gasps and cheers of the people gathered to hear him work his word magic.

Jean sat near the back of the group again, still turning over in his mind the images of kidnapped princesses and mysterious, haunted basements that Marco's words had so vividly painted, even as the final story reached its end. He could _see_ the beguiling witch from the last tale as if she were really in front of him - blonde and blue eyed and deceptively fair - and he wondered how the storyteller was able to conjure up such lifelike characters so easily. It made him think bitterly of his nearly empty sketch books, his total lack of inspiration in his new hometown. Caught up in his mix of jealousy and intrigue, he nearly missed Marco thanking his audience for another great evening, and waving cheerfully as they collectively rose to their feet to leave, as if ordered somehow. Jean was standing as well, almost before he noticed himself doing it. He was too busy watching Marco to think much of the small lapses in conscious thought his staring was creating.

Marco was talking to someone, a petite woman in a white, hooded sweatshirt, with crossed arms and a guarded stance. When she turned to leave, Jean noticed her pale skin and hair and fought back the feeling that he _recognized_ her from somewhere, letting her pass him without meeting her eye. He was too rapt in thought to be bothered. He wanted a chance to get closer to Marco, though he couldn't honestly understand why. It was a _pull_ , an interest that had him standing alone in the nearly vacant park, waiting for other people to clear a path between he and another man. By the time the crowd had dissipated however, the storyteller was gone again, seemingly faded into the humid evening air. Jean walked back to his car with his mind still clouded and curious.

\--

He went to the park again the following Friday, and that Saturday as well. Marco was there again, and so were his listeners. The evenings were becoming chillier as the calendar slid into September, and he stopped bothering to change out of his work clothes. No one in the crowd seemed to give him a second look for being overdressed; they were all too transfixed by Marco. Or maybe _he_ was just too focused on the storyteller to notice anyone else.

Sitting in the throng of people felt oddly lonely, so he brought along a pen and paper to scribble on as he heard each evening's performance. Sketching so close to other people wasn't usually something he enjoyed, but something about the enraptured crowd sparked his creativity. Marco had barely begun to speak when Jean started drawing; first scenes from the stories, and then just outlines of Marco himself, smiling and relaxed. The more Jean studied him, the faster his hands worked across the page, capturing finer and finer details until his drawings nearly resembled photographs. He moved a few feet further into the crowd each time he went, edging closer to where Marco sat at its heart. He counted himself lucky that Marco only caught him staring a few times, but each time he did, he acknowledged it with only a wide, almost eager-looking smile and continued speaking without pause. The confidence in his voice was overshadowed only by its pleasant depth and richness, possibly an affectation for his public speaking.

Jean wondered more than once if it would sound the same in private conversation.

At the end of each evening performance, Marco would be gone before Jean could seek audience with him, leaving him increasingly frustrated. It was as if he disappeared completely, and always just before Jean could make sense of where he might be going. He knew that he had no right to wonder what became of the other man once his performances ended - they'd never even _spoken_ to each other - but his constant vanishing act piqued Jean's interest almost as much as his fascinating tales.

The problem was that the stories didn't disappear along with him. They followed Jean, stuck in every crevice of his mind and seeping into his consciousness at all hours of the day. After returning for a third weekend of Marco's narration, the stories began to keep him awake at night, almost as much as the thought of Marco himself did. He drew more frequently, trying all the while to figure out what was so interesting about the storyteller that had him thinking of so little else. He'd been attracted to lots of people before - women and men, it had never really mattered to Jean - but this was something else _entirely_. Marco had captivating eyes as dark as his hair, but they sometimes looked _red_ when he told a particularly creepy tale. He had olive skin that looked as smooth and flawless as his voice always sounded, and no matter how dark the night was around him, that skin seemed to glisten as if illuminated by the glow of fire. Marco wasn't just attractive - he was _fascinating_. Trying to figure him out always seemed more important than an extra hour of sleep, and soon Jean was barely getting enough to function.

The mornings became harder with each day that passed. He would wake up earlier than he intended, unable to shake the images of Marco - or his stories - from his mind. Some days he would realize that he hadn't been asleep at all yet, too wrapped up in imagining Marco's voice, narrating tales he'd never heard before, but somehow managed to envision anyway. After a while of trying without success to rest, he would settle for pulling his sketchbook from beneath his bed, and drawing whatever he could remember from the disturbing scenes he saw increasingly often in his head. The images he produced were strange and sometimes frightening, but they helped pull the feeling of uneasiness from his mind and drop it somewhere that he could revisit when he felt ready. He marked a dark **X** on the cover of that book, and bought himself another to use when he sketched in public. He hoped that maybe if he kept the drawings hidden, they'd eventually stop haunting him. That, and something just felt wrong about the pages with those drawings being so close to the ones on which he'd doodled images of Marco.

Despite his lack of sleep and dwindling mental energy, he continued with his regular schedule, working every weekday and counting down the days until Friday night, when he would return the park, the crowd, and the storyteller. By the first light of Wednesday morning, he was already sipping poorly made coffee, trying to make sense of yet another vision in his mind as he went through the motions of preparing for work. He knew there was a meeting that day, and he knew that his boss had insisted that he attend, but there just wasn't room in his mind to recall what it was about. He poured himself another full cup of coffee before heading out the door.

\--

_He struggles with cumbersome machinery - battle gear he somehow recognizes despite the unfamiliar setting. He's trying to drag it from the lifeless body of another man, crushed under the wreckage of a fallen building. As he fumbles with its parts, a monstrous sound comes from above him, as a horrifying giant lumbers closer. A loud pop, a whirring sound, and the boy he's seen in visions before sails through the air behind him, shouting his name. He lands yards away and calls out to him again, drawing the creature away as he screams._

_"Move, Jean! Jean!"_

_"Jean!!"_

 

"Jean?!"

His eyes snapped open to reveal the boardroom, slanted slightly from the angle of his head resting in his palm. The impatient faces of his coworkers mirrored that of his boss; she sat across the table, staring in his direction as he tried to regain his bearings.

"Jean, are you alright?" she ventured, raising an eyebrow. Jean nodded quickly and wiped his drool-slicked bottom lip.

"Yes ma'am. Sorry Ms. Ackerman." He mumbled through his apology, cheeks just beginning to burn with embarrassment.

She nodded and turned her gaze to a stack of papers in her hands. "Try to stay with us, alright?" She leafed through the stack, passed it to her assistant to distribute to the others, and did not return her eyes to Jean for the rest of the meeting. He'd never been so thankful to be ignored.

\--

Back in his own office, Jean tried to make sense of the few notes he'd taken that morning. He couldn't even remember what their topic of discussion had been, much less what his scribbled shorthand might be referring to. His mental attendance during meetings was never stellar, but he was sure he'd hear some harassment from the others over the next few days for his _amusing_ performance that morning. He folded the pages a few times and knocked them from his desk, into the trash where they belonged.

"Were those from this morning's meeting?"

His boss's voice startled him. He pushed his chair back from his desk and shook his head automatically, even though he knew that she knew better.

"There's no need to lie," she said simply, still standing in the doorway. "As unconscious as you were for most of the discussion, I'm surprised you were even able to use a pen." She held a foam coffee shop cup in each hand, holding one up with a small shake to offer it to him. He looked at the chair opposite from his desk, and nodded subconsciously, motioning her toward it. She placed the drink on his desk and took a seat, cradling the other cup in her lap as she spoke quietly. "So what's the matter, Jean?"

Jean looked back at her blankly for a moment, not sure what she was asking. She smiled - barely - and repeated her question, twirling her drink in her hands to stir it.

"Something is bothering you. What's the matter?"

"I... haven't been sleeping lately," he said without thinking. As soon as the words left him he felt foolish, and grabbed the coffee to mask his insecure grimace. He drank it too quickly and burnt his lip, muttering curses under his breath and wondering how his day could get worse. He looked back at her apologetically, but she didn't laugh. She only nodded, still watching him patiently.

"Do you need to see a doctor?"

"I don't think so. It's just... personal stuff. I didn't mean for it to effect my performance at work - I'm--"

She waved him silent. "How about this? Go ahead and clock out for the day, and come back on Monday rested and ready to focus on work."

"Two days off? Ms. Ackerman, I don't think--"

"As I've told you before, you're welcome to call me Mikasa. And I think it's for the best for you to take care of whatever is troubling you before you try to get anything done here. Especially if today is any indication." She smiled a bit behind her cup as she sipped her drink. Jean tugged at his tie habitually, feeling his blush from that morning return.

"I'm really sorry Ms. - um, _Mikasa_ \- I won't let it happen again. I'll get myself together."

"See that you do. I can't give you _too_ many days off" she said, then softened her tone as she reached across his desk to pat his arm. "Our IT department is an absolute disaster when you're not around."

He forced a grin and a quick nod, thanking her for the coffee as she rose to her feet and walked back toward the hallway.

"Understood, ma'am."

\--

"Heard you were drooling all over the table at the meeting this morning!"

Connie followed Jean down the hall of the office, stepping onto the elevator behind him as they left for the day. He was grinning; Jean had less patience for it than usual.

"Yeah? And where'd you hear that, asshole?"

"Bert. Though he technically told me on accident. So don't give him any shit about it."

"Duly noted. _You're_ the dick, not Bert."

Connie cackled. "So anyway, you going to lunch with us tomorrow? We're supposed to meet Sasha and some of her friends from work at that sports bar near--"

"I won't be here tomorrow," Jean said quickly as they stepped back out of the elevator, into the lobby. He walked hurriedly toward the door, but Connie was right on his heels.

"You sick?" he asked. Jean shook his head, still heading for the exit.

"Not exactly. Boss just wants me to take a few days off to get my head straight. That's all."

Connie stopped so suddenly that Jean did the same without thinking, turning to glance at him over his shoulder.

"Mikasa gave you time off?" Connie asked with a low whistle, eyes wide. "Must be some serious shit, man."

Jean rolled his eyes and turned back toward the door, pushing through it as he grumbled a reply.

"It's not a big deal. I just kind of spaced out at the meeting and she thinks I need to take a breather for a day or two to get myself together. Just drop it, dude."

Connie followed him out into the parking lot and paused for a moment, looking him over with something that resembled concern. To Jean's great relief, he did as he was asked and let the topic go with a shrug, setting off across the lot toward his own car.

"You got plans for your long weekend, boss?" he called, a smile back on his face. Jean shrugged dismissively.

"Nothing worth talking about."

Usually Connie would've argued, or offered a 'solution' to his lack of social engagements. But instead he nodded, seemingly accepting Jean's answer as good enough before waving to him one last time and closing the door of his car behind him. Jean did the same, and wondered if Connie had left him alone - if his boss had brought him coffee sweetened with obvious pity - because he _looked_ as messed up as he felt. Catching sight of his reflection in the rear view mirror, he was pretty sure that was _exactly_ why everyone was acting strangely.

On his way home he thought about how long it had been since he'd had time off from work, and wracked his brain to remember if he even knew of anything worth doing in the sleepy town around him. He knew what he would undoubtedly be doing that weekend, but he still had a few days until the next time he'd be returning to the park. In some part of his mind, he hoped he could rest before then, so he wouldn't look like such a train wreck in front of other people - especially Marco.

Jean sighed out loud when that name crossed his mind, and turned up the music from the car stereo to try to keep his thoughts from swirling out of control.

He needed to _talk_ to him. The guy seemed friendly with the few people Jean had ever seen him speak to directly, and if he could just get him alone, he could ask him how he did it. Where did the stories come from? What was the inspiration for the endless number of tales he had to tell? And how did he keep them from haunting him the way they did Jean, keeping him up half the night every time he so much as heard a new one? Maybe he wouldn't mention _that_ part. But as one artist to another, he needed to know where it all started. His motivations in speaking to him were entirely academic, purely professional. The storyteller inspired him artistically, and he wanted to discuss that art with him.

As he caught himself thinking about the way Marco smiled when he told his stories, he tried to convince himself that that really was the _only_ reason.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there would totally be some kisses, if Jean had any game at all.
> 
> \--

There were no stories to be heard that weekend.

Jean arrived earlier than usual that Friday evening, but found that he was nearly alone. The few other people he saw were scattered haphazardly around the park. The spot where the storyteller usually sat was bare, without a single person gathered on the grass around it. He waited for nearly an hour before resigning himself to the fact that Marco wasn't coming.

He returned on Saturday night, but his stay was shorter. After twenty minutes of sitting near the spot that Marco typically spoke from, he overheard an elderly woman telling her grandchildren that the storyteller wasn't performing that weekend, and that he would come again the next. Jean left the park, without a word to anyone. Pulling into his condo's parking garage, he felt an unwelcome wave of bitterness sweep over him. The thought that he'd wasted time - not to mention gas - on _two_ pointless trips soured his stomach, and he sat glaring down at his steering wheel for a long time before finally going inside for the night.

Why had Marco missed that weekend, and how was Jean seemingly the only person who didn't know about it ahead of time? He wanted to remain angry, but the longer he thought about it, the more worry replaced his rage. Was Marco alright? Where had he been, if not at the park? The fact that he knew that he didn't really have the _right_ to be concerned about the other man only made him feel worse. Why did he even care? He'd only even _seen_ the guy a handful of times. It was a question he couldn't quite answer.

Drawing had become a source of relief for those kinds of stressors in Jean's life, but that weekend he found himself unable to sketch more than a few lines of anything. The disturbing visions sparked by Marco's stories had stopped, but so had the addictively sweet images of Marco himself, throwing Jean headlong back into his infuriating art block. It was as if all of his inspiration emanated straight from Marco himself. He wrestled between feelings of boredom and frustration, his chest heavy with the sensation of missing someone he'd never even spoken to.

When Monday morning arrived, Jean felt no better than he had the week before - and in some ways, far worse. He just hoped he'd gotten a handle on not letting it be so glaringly obvious. He wasn’t sure how many more meetings he could sleep through without being fired.

\--

His work days were largely unproductive that week, as he debated whether or not to go back to the park on the coming Friday. On Monday afternoon, he was stubbornly opposed to the idea, but as the week wore on - and he found himself thinking more and more often about Marco - his resolve began to waver. By Thursday evening, he was sure he would be returning the following night. The old woman's words echoed in his mind, promising the storyteller's return that weekend. As he sat down at his desk on Friday morning, his hope that she’d been correct was like that of an eager child. Jean barely spoke to his colleagues that day; he had no desire to embarrass himself any further than he already had. Some things were unavoidable though, and Connie Springer was one of those things.

"You booked solid again this weekend, boss?" he asked, plopping down in an empty seat at the break room table. Friday afternoons always meant a catered lunch, which meant more socialization than Jean usually had the patience for. Connie pulled his seat up beside Jean and glanced around the table at some of the other employees. "Sasha and I are going to the lake if any of you guys wanna tag along."

"Thanks" Jean said, trying to sound sincere. "But I _am_ already booked."

"Lemme guess - you're going back to drool over Marco Bodt some more. Am I right?"

Jean scowled at him, but didn't bother to argue. A few of the others were not so subtly listening in on their conversation. Even as they looked up from their food to stare, he was glad their boss wasn’t joining them for lunch. Connie grinned, oblivious.

"Ahh, Sasha was right! Man, you've got it bad for that guy, don't you?"

"Can you please stop talking?" Jean hissed, more embarrassed than he wanted to let on. He was still processing the fact that he'd just learned Marco's last name; the last thing he needed was for Connie to goad him into accidentally admitting how strangely _exciting_ that information was.

"You _do!_ God, it's so obvious - _that's_ why you've been so weird lately!" Connie slapped the table excitedly, like he'd just made an amazing discovery. Jean groaned and rubbed at his temples.

"Con, seriously. I don't even _know_ the guy. Can you just shut--"

"But you _want_ to!" Connie bellowed. Most of the rest of the room was listening by then, and as Connie kept rambling, Jean was caught between wanting to punch him and wanting to melt into the table along with what was left of his dignity.

"Why haven't you made your move, dude? He's single, isn't he? You gotta get that while it’s still on the market! C'mon, Jean - man, why aren't you saying any--"

Jean stood up and pushed his chair back from the table, yelling to top Connie's increasing volume.

"Why? I don't know, Connie. Maybe I didn't want everyone we work with to know that I'm into guys, particularly one that I only vaguely know because my _dick_ of a best friend and his nosy-ass wife dragged me to see him. A guy that I've never even talked to, but _yeah_ \- for some reason – I really, _really_ want to. Maybe I wanted to keep my personal life to my fucking self!"

He dropped back into his chair with a huff, glaring at the others as if _daring_ them to comment. None of them did. Connie stared for a moment, then smiled and shrugged.

"Too late for that, boss!"

Jean laid his face into his open palm and squeezed at his temples again. The distance that the rest of the staff kept from him for the remainder of the day was almost worth the complete embarrassment of his outburst. And though he would never admit it to Connie, he felt strangely better afterward. Pissed off, but still - _better_.

\--

The rain that slicked the roads on his way to the park dampened Jean's hopes as well as his windshield. He reasoned that Marco probably wouldn't be there in such gloomy weather. Why then did he continue driving, pull into the lot behind the park and dig an umbrella from beneath his seat, even as he told himself he was wasting his time? He couldn't apply logic to the situation; he followed whatever curiosity was leading him out into the rain and toward the spot beneath the old tree.

When it came into sight, his heart leapt into his throat. There was Marco, with an oversized umbrella propped behind him, sitting on the quilt just as Jean had grown accustomed to seeing him do. The crowd around him was smaller than usual, but no less enthusiastic, wearing ponchos and coats as they sprawled on towels on the wet grass. It was as if nothing could keep people from congregating around Marco; the pull he had on his audience was almost _visible_ as they watched and listened. For a moment it looked like he was raising his eyes to Jean, watching him make his way into the park. Jean's steps faltered for a moment in his surprise, but then he was gravitating that way, heading to join the dozen or so other people who had come to hear the storyteller speak.

\--

“But the knight – known by only a single, mysterious name – had a secret beyond their feelings for the beautiful princess. They too were a monster, nearly thirty feet tall in their natural state, older than anyone knew, and guilty of dozens of murders in their time. The princess was small in stature, but courageous at heart – she wasn’t afraid of the monsters, least of all her lover’s true form. She knew all the while, keeping the knight’s secret, so that one day they could be together, beyond the confines of the oppressive walls. They spoke often of a life outside of the kingdom that had failed them both – the knight promised a future to her, and the princess believed. They fought other monsters side by side, keeping their identities hidden under the armor of warriors, until a terrible battle at the Castle Utgard tore them apart from one another. Kidnapped by their own kind, the knight swore to return, to protect the princess at any cost, and deliver the future they had planned together. Through fights and deceptions and treacherous journeys, the knight kept faith that they would see the princess again, even as whispers began of her reclaiming her rightful place on the throne. It did not deter the loyal knight – as long as they were assured her safety, no means to securing it were beyond possibility. In the end, that alone mattered above all else to the warrior; the princess would live to reign, or the people would pay. But the knight was not the only one hiding a monstrous secret...”

 

Although the applause was softer than usual, Jean was far more aware of it. It interrupted his thoughts every time Marco ended another story, and he would join the others, clapping to keep from looking so lost in his own head. He'd left his sketch pad at home that night, unsure that he'd even have a reason to stay at the park, much less anything worth drawing. By the time the final story began he was fidgeting and anxiously wishing for a place to jot down the scenes swimming through his mind. When the evening was over - and Marco was inexplicably gone again - he told himself he would be certain to bring it the next night, when he undoubtedly returned.

On Saturday evening he sat closer than ever to Marco, so there was more than ever for him to draw. He noticed things he hadn't before, like the scattered freckles on Marco's skin, and the way the glasses that he sometimes wore slipped down his nose every so often. He put those things on paper, along with the sketches of Marco's stories. The pages of his book were quickly filling up, but there was no end to the ideas he had when he was there in the park. Jean had been telling himself that his art was the main reason that he kept returning, but when yet another Saturday night ended without him getting close enough to speak to the storyteller, he realized there was no sense in lying to himself any longer.

He just really wanted to be _near_ Marco, even if that meant admiring him in distant silence. Even if it meant sitting on wet grass and feeling the occasional stare of a curious child or nosy old woman as to why he was there alone. Even if that meant barely understanding his own thoughts anymore. He wondered as he drove home that evening exactly when he had become so pathetic.

\--

A month and a half.

He'd already spent that much time, chasing after a person that might as well have been a wisp of smoke. He couldn't remember exactly when, but at some point during his third week constantly thinking about Marco, Jean had come up with a strange theory, trying to explain how the storyteller was so damned elusive.

He wasn't human.

His perfect voice, his flawless features - Marco was so luminous that he actually _glowed_ in the dark. He spoke with a clarity Jean had never heard from any other person - even his articulate boss - and without a hint of the regional drawl most of the locals in Maria had. There was no way to place where he was _from,_ and it was as unsettling as it was intriguing. He seemed infinitely bright and cheerful, smiling even while telling the most disturbing stories, but his sunny spirit belied a sultry aura that captured Jean's attention in every sense. Everything about him appeared faultless, and Jean was having a harder and harder time denying to himself that he was absolutely _enamored_ with him, even though he still barely knew him. Marco was absolutely _inhuman_.

It was a theory that made Jean worry more for his _sanity_ than his safety. Maybe it only made sense to him because he was so mentally exhausted, and sleep deprived to boot. Maybe if he _had_ any sense, he wouldn't be dragging himself into a coffee house to spend his Sunday night, pouring his jumbled thoughts onto paper and pouring overpriced lattes down his throat.

He threw the bag he carried into a chair at an empty table and placed his order, sliding his card across the counter to the cashier without ever really hearing the total. When his drink was ready, he took it back to his table and tugged his sketchbook from his bag. Flipping it open, he thumbed through a few drawings on his way to finding a blank page.

A woman trapped in a crystal. The crowd gathered around Marco. A monster, breaking through the walls around a city. Marco, sitting beneath an umbrella. A kidnapped princess. Marco's hands as he narrated. Marco's eyes, half hidden behind glasses. Marco's smile. Marco, Marco,  _Marco_.

He stared at the last drawing for a long moment and sighed, finally turning to a clean page. Unable to think of anything else, he studied the dusty, oversized cityscape painting hanging on the wall across from where he sat. He began outlining it, barely noticing when the buildings began to morph beneath his pencil into antiquated brick homes and wooden shacks. An entire village - just like the one he pictured in many of Marco's stories - appeared under his hand as he absently traced a pencil across the page.

Customers came and went behind him; he never once looked up from his drawing, even as footsteps drew oddly close. Something - someone - bumped his arm, and he swore under his breath, ready to shout at whoever the hell was careless enough to collide with him.

"Oops, so sorry!"

The voice startled Jean, and he turned sharply to see whose it was. When he saw the other person standing just inches away, his hand clenched in panic, and the lid of his latte popped off the cup, spilling searing hot liquid over his fingers. He yelped and jerked his hand back, letting the cup and the rest of its contents fall onto his lap. It splashed onto his pants, his shirt, his shoes - and the person beside him.

Marco.

"Shit! I'm sorry - _so_ sorry!" Jean stammered, his pulse pounding in his ears as they burned with embarrassment. Without thinking, he grabbed a fist full of napkins and thrust them toward the splatters on Marco's clothes. Frantically wiping at the spill, he realized he was repeatedly running his hand over the zipper of Marco's pants. Thoroughly flustered, he let the crumpled napkins fall to the floor. He snatched another handful and elected to just _hand_ them to Marco.

"Are you ok? D-did I burn you or a-anything?" Jean stuttered, his cheeks still hot.

Marco shook his head, a broad smile still on his face as he dabbed at the fading splashes on his pants. "No, I'm fine! Just a little stained up, no big deal. Are _you_ alright?"

Only then did the uncomfortable feeling of the coffee soaking through his clothing register with Jean. He glanced down at his drenched lap and nodded quickly, grabbing more napkins for himself.

"Yeah. Sorry. Really."

"It's fine, honestly." Marco assured him, and Jean found himself _smiling_ , despite still feeling completely mortified. "I'm just glad it didn't get on your sketch pad there."

Jean remembered his drawing and looked back at it quickly to see that Marco was right; not a drop of his latte had landed anywhere near the paper. He was confused - the drink had splashed basically everywhere else - but thankful, especially that the visible page was not one of the many that had Marco's face sketched across it.

"I mean it's really nice. You're a talented artist," Marco added when Jean didn't say anything in response.

It was hard to talk to him. Marco was much better looking at such a short distance - absolutely _alluring_. His voice was quieter, but just as smooth and even as it was when he told his stories to his crowds of listeners. His eyes were a sinfully sweet shade of rich chocolate brown, crowned by thick, dark lashes that he looked back at Jean through as he dropped his head and peered back at him, almost shyly. Jean felt oddly star struck, even as Marco stood in front of him, covered in the remains of his latte. He shrugged to stall for time, sliding his sketch book into his bag and clearing his throat before finally forcing himself to respond.

"Oh, thanks. That was just a quick sketch. Coffee shops aren't the most inspiring places."

Marco laughed, and it made Jean smile again.

"I'm sure. Especially this one," he grinned, glancing around at the drab walls. He held a hand out toward Jean. "I'm Marco, by the way."

Jean tried to act like it was the first time he'd heard the other man's name, despite the fact that he'd been turning it over in his mind for weeks. "Nice to meet you, Marco," he said after a moment, shaking his hand and saying that name aloud for the first time. "I'm Jean."

Marco's eyes fluttered for a moment, as if he were trying to remember something. But then he smiled widely again and squeezed Jean's hand in his. "Good to meet you too, Jean. Do you have somewhere to be right away, or do you mind if I sit down for a moment?"

Jean pulled a chair out for him before he even answered, and just like that, Marco was sitting with him. He wondered a few times if he might just be envisioning the whole situation in his head, destined to wake up at work or at home or _anywhere_ else. As Marco relaxed backward into the chair across from his, he bit down on his lip hard, just to be sure he was really awake.

But even covered in coffee, sitting there with Marco was better than anything he could've dreamed up.

\--

"So do you dump coffee on everyone when you first meet them?"

Coming from anyone else, the teasing would've irritated Jean. But in Marco's gorgeous voice, it seemed more amusing than aggravating. He shook his head and glanced down at Marco's still intact cup of coffee, silently thankful he hadn't destroyed it too.

"No, not usually," he said with a shaky laugh.

"Oh? I guess that means I'm special, then."

"Yeah..." Jean muttered without thinking. Marco raised an eyebrow and grinned, biting just a little at his bottom lip.

Jean cleared his throat and swallowed the nervous tightness there. "So where were you this weekend?" he asked, and realized how odd the question sounded almost as soon as it had left his mouth. Marco was still eyeing him expectantly as he continued, trying to keep his voice even. "You weren't at the park, I mean. I, uh... usually come and listen to your stuff."

"Right, I've seen you there," Marco said with a more relaxed smile, and Jean's throat felt dry again. "I usually take every fourth weekend off. Give myself at least a little bit of free time, you know?"

Jean nodded. "What else do you do? Like... for a living?"

"I'm a teacher. I teach junior high English and humanities."

"Really? That's... I can see that, yeah." He really could; the way Marco held people's attention, engaging a classroom full of students every day sounded like his forte.

"What about you?" Marco asked. "Are you an artist?"

"Me? Nah. That's just something I do to relax, I guess. I'm actually the CTO for the local branch of a company based out of Capitol City. They transferred me here in April. I'm a desk jockey Monday through Friday."

"That would explain the tie. You seemed to be dressed a little too nice for a starving artist last weekend. Made me wonder." Marco spoke with a grin, and Jean felt an almost juvenile flutter in his chest at the thought that Marco had noticed him - _wondered_ about him.

"I actually wish I had more time to draw, but my job isn't too bad, and the money is pretty decent."

Marco nodded. "I'd say. There are days that I wish teaching paid a little more, but it doesn't really matter in the long run, I suppose. I like what I do." His smile was so disarmingly warm; Jean found himself leaning in toward him to get a better look at it.

"So how'd you get into doing your thing at the park?" he asked, sure that his staring had become obvious. Marco didn't seem to mind though, and Jean couldn't bring himself to, either.

"It actually started with a field trip for Halloween last year. We were discussing the cultural tradition of storytelling in this area, so I took my kids there and spent the afternoon telling them stories. They were so excited; we even drew a little crowd."

"I bet your kids love you." Jean sighed, dropping his chin into his open palm. He wanted to be embarrassed by the fact that he was almost _swooning_ at Marco's words, but something about the other man's presence made it impossible to care.

"They do; it's really flattering. I have kids from last year's classes that come back to my classroom all the time after school, asking to hear more stories. I was forever cutting deals with them to do well on their assignments if they wanted more, and they ate it up. They were the ones who convinced me to start doing the weekend thing in the park. That way I could cut back to two days of stories a week instead of five, and they could all be there and bring their friends and families. Plus the park itself is a great distraction for the smaller kids, if they get too frightened."

"Five days? How many stories do you _have_?" Jean said, too suddenly. Marco's eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he never stopped smiling. Jean returned it, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck nervously. "Seriously though - how do you come up with all of them? I-if you don't mind me asking." It was _the_ question, the one thing he had told himself for weeks that he wanted from Marco. He chewed on his lip, waiting on the response.

"They just sort of... come to me." Marco said slowly. He looked back at Jean and must have noticed the half frown on his face; he hid a laugh behind his hand. "Sorry, that probably sounds really pretentious."

His laughter softened Jean's disappointment. "Only a little," Jean replied, jabbing lightly at Marco's arm with his knuckles.

Marco returned the gesture, brushing his fingers across Jean's shoulder. "So where does _your_ inspiration come from?"

"For what?" Jean blinked, acutely aware of Marco's hand on him.

"Your drawings. You said coffee shops don't really do it for you, so what does?"

_Your stories,_ Jean thought. _Your voice. You._

"Uh, well," he started, fairly certain that any of _those_ answers would scare Marco away permanently. "People, I guess. That's mostly what I draw. Interesting ones; not that there are too many of those in this town."

Marco shrugged. "I think that's all in who you know. Or maybe just how you look at it. Maria is full of surprises if you're willing to find them."

"I'll believe that when I see it."

"I hope you will," Marco said simply, and though his eyes returned to the drink in his hands, Jean was almost sure they flashed with that hint of red he'd seen so many times during his storytelling.

\--

Jean wasn't sure exactly how long they sat there talking; he hadn't bothered to check the clock on the wall when he'd come in by himself, much less once Marco was sitting next to him. When Marco glanced down at his watch and shook his head regretfully, Jean realized the shop was closing soon.

"As much as I'd like to stay and talk longer, I've got a lot to do before work tomorrow," Marco sighed, and it sounded like a genuine apology.

"Oh, y-yeah. Yeah, me too," Jean stammered. "That's fine."

"It was really nice talking to you, though" Marco beamed, and Jean's chest felt airy again.

"You too. Hey, um... maybe I'll see you around sometime soon?" So much of him wanted to ask Marco on some kind of date, or at least ask him to stay after his performance was over one night, just to talk. Aware that he was probably missing his only chance to do just that, his nerves won out, and he settled for a shrug and the hope that maybe he really _would_ run into Marco outside of the park again soon.

"Maybe I'll bump into you at the laundromat," Marco teased, motioning down at the setting stains on his shirt and pants.

"Yeah," Jean grimaced, glancing down at his own blemished clothes. "I'm really sorry about that."

Marco shook his head and grinned, with even more warmth than before. "It's fine, I promise. It was worth it." The last comment kept Jean pinned to his seat for a moment, breathless as he watched Marco rise to his feet and collect his things. He stood a few seconds later, eyes still fixed on Marco as they moved toward the doors together.

 

Outside, it had grown dark and chilly, and the drizzle of rain from earlier in the evening had progressed into a steady shower.

"Looks like it's coming down pretty hard now," Jean said absently, pushing through the first of two sets of doors.

Marco nodded. "Do you have an umbrella?" He asked, pulling his own from the inner pocket of his long coat. With a groan Jean remembered that _no_ , he didn't.

"Let me walk you to your car, then." Marco offered, holding the outermost door open with one arm. Jean stepped through it, eyeing him cautiously even as he waited for him to open the umbrella. He put a hand on Jean's shoulder and pulled him closer, walking _right beside_ him as they crossed the rain soaked parking lot. When they made it to his car, Jean turned to face him, nearly bumping their heads together.

"Thanks, Marco," he breathed, dizzy with the sound of that name in his own voice, their faces only inches apart as he backed against the door of his car. The sounds of rain and wind and his own pounding heartbeat swirled together to block out every other noise. Only because he was staring so intently at Marco's lips did he realize they were moving.

"Will I see you at the park next weekend?" Marco's voice was even more entrancing at this distance, lower and softer than ever and Jean nodded without hesitation, barely aware of what he was even agreeing to.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll definitely be there."

Marco smirked and leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together for just a moment, as if by accident. "Looking forward to it..." he said quietly, and the fluttering in Jean's chest caught fire. Then Marco backed away - Jean unconsciously leaning after him - and slowly pulled the umbrella away with him as he rolled his fingers to wave goodbye.

Jean turned to unlock his door, pressing the button a few times before the keychain's dying battery would respond. He opened the door and turned back to wave at Marco, but the other man was gone. Jean stood, searching the parking lot with his eyes until his wet hair stuck to his face.

"Marco," he whispered, shaking his head. He had been so close to what he thought he wanted from him that evening, but as he looked across the vacant pavement all he could bring himself to regret was not pressing his lips against that inhumanly perfect mouth, not asking for more of Marco's time or at _least_ his damned phone number.

He climbed into his car, closed the door behind him and wondered how - even after speaking to him - he still knew so little about the storyteller. The feeling of excitement still smoldering in his chest reminded him that Marco had specifically _asked_ him to come back to the park, to _see him_ there. Thinking about the days in between, his only thought as he drove home was of which day he might be most likely to bump into someone at a laundromat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this chapter, friends! This one's extra long comparatively speaking, so I hope you'll enjoy it! :)
> 
> \--

_They're sitting on a platform together - he and the young soldier he so often sees in his dreams - legs dangling over the edge as they work on the machinery he's grown accustomed to being completely_ unaccustomed _to. A soft, ambient light bathes them both, with darkness at its edges. He drops in on the scene right in the middle of a conversation, though the dark haired boy is really the only one talking._

_"I hope you won't get mad when I say this, but... you aren't a strong person. So you can relate to how the weak feel." The boy smiles at him and keeps talking, praising his decisiveness, his ability to size things up and take action. "Isn't that why you always know what needs to be done?" He tells him how much he trusts him, tells him he's the reason he's even alive. Somewhere in Jean's mind, he wonders how anyone could think those things about him. He returns to his work on the gear in front of him, and then a hand brushes over the back of his and they sit there, just looking at each other, until a ringing somewhere in the distance evaporates the scene around them._

\--

The visions of a freckled soldier boy were becoming alarmingly frequent. Ever since his chat with the storyteller, his mind was almost constantly preoccupied with them, like memories from scenes he'd never actually lived through. But the boy in the daydreams looked just like Marco, and it was enough to make him more curious than concerned.

When the images played out in his mind, he would see the younger Marco, sometimes reflections of a younger version of himself, but also other people that he recognized. Connie, Sasha, Bert and Mikasa - it was as if his mind had begun to populate his fantasies with familiar faces to make them less alarming. But as the days wore on, he found it had quite the opposite effect.

He started seeing similarities between the people in his visions - the characters in Marco's spectacular stories - and everyday people in Maria. It went beyond his coworkers and his boss; almost every face in town began to ring with familiarity where there had been none before. A bubbly blonde at the local grocery store made him think of the kidnapped princess in Marco's story. A muscular man at the pharmacy looked strikingly like the deceptive monster in another tale. The petite woman with the severe expression that he had seen talking to Marco in the park appeared one day at the laundromat, and as she stepped through the door he noticed how much she reminded him of the witch trapped in the crystal. He ended up washing his clothes twice, distracted as he stared at her.

Everywhere he went, it seemed Marco's fables were following him. It was effecting him more than he wanted to let on, but by midweek it didn't seem that he had much control over it anymore. He nearly jumped out of his desk chair one afternoon at work when Bert accidentally knocked down the divider between two walls of cubicles, with Connie playfully screaming in response. Later that day he overheard his boss speaking curtly to a "Ms. Leonhardt" on the phone and had to sit down again, overwhelmed with a dizzying sense of having heard that exchange _somewhere_ before. The deja vu haunted him, as Maria seemed to brim with faces that he distantly recognized, though he couldn't place exactly _why._

The only face he didn't see that week was Marco's, to his great annoyance. He was sure that he would bump into him at the coffee shop, the laundromat - _somewhere_ \- but he never saw the other man. As the weekend approached, he held tight to Marco's invitation to join him in the park again. When he grabbed a jacket and his sketch pad that Friday evening, he did so with an uncertain smile, sure that somehow things would be different this weekend.

\--

"Abandoned by his father and having lost his mother to a terrifying monster, the boy decided at a tender age that he would enlist as a soldier. He was trained mercilessly, beaten down by his superiors and the harsh life of the military, but he pushed through it. He was determined to protect his sister and brother in arms, hell bent on destroying the monsters that had robbed him of the only other family he'd ever had. There was no peace for him in his planning for revenge, but when his skills proved inadequate, he began to lose hope that he could ever change their dire situation. To save his closest friend, he sacrificed what he believed was his own life, pulling him to safety before being devoured by a horrifying monster, sure that he would never see the sun again. That was when he discovered something about himself that his father had kept hidden from him; a hope for himself and every other soldier, that would all at once endanger and disgust him. The boy was a monster, himself."

 

Jean spent most of the evening with his head down, sketching the scenes Marco described in his stories. When he would glance up at the storyteller, he could see the faintest hint of a smile tug at his lips, and he caught himself more than once grinning down at his sketchbook as a result. He finished a drawing of Marco's smiling face on one page, and flipped to the one facing it to scribble the outlines of the story of the boy who became a monster.

It was oddly therapeutic for him, drawing the features of a character based purely on the storyteller's descriptions. It was the first face he'd seen in days that looked completely unfamiliar, unlike anyone else he'd seen before. By the time he finished a quick shading of the soldier boy's eyes, he'd relaxed, relieved at the thought that maybe all the deja vu had just been coincidental. It surely was all in his head, and this unique face somehow proved it.

The audience applauded, and Marco stood, listening to their shouts of praise and excitement. Jean stood too, with every intention of speaking to him, but someone in the crowd caught his attention first. It was a young man who'd apparently been sitting very close to Marco on the opposite side of where Jean had been seated. He looked like he couldn't have been much younger than Jean, and when he turned around to give another loud whistle in Marco's direction, Jean's mouth went dry.

It was him - the monster boy. Jean glanced down at his sketch pad and back up at the stranger, and realized how strikingly similar his drawing looked to the other person. As the crowd moved between them and he stood looking at the boy, he felt a twisting in his stomach and a spinning in his head. He ripped the page from the book, wadded it into a ball, and threw it away as he ran toward the park's small bathroom.

After rinsing his face and making sure that he wasn't going to be sick, he returned to the grassy clearing where the crowd had been gathered. Instead of dozens of people, there were only a scattered few. The boy who looked like the monster was gone - to Jean's great relief - but so was Marco. Confused and more hurt than he wanted to acknowledge, he found his sketchbook lying exactly where he'd left it, relieved at least that no one had taken it. He began to fold it closed when he noticed handwriting in the open space of one of his sketches - the one of Marco's face - that did not belong to him.

 

_Sorry you had to rush off, but I bet you'll be back for this. I don't know exactly where to find you, otherwise I'd have given it to you personally. It was great to see you tonight, regardless. Maybe you can stay after I finish tomorrow to talk? Hope to see you then._

_\- Marco_

_P.S - I really like this!_

 

There was a little arrow drawn from where the writing ended, pointing up at the image on the page. Jean groaned and rubbed at his face, but even his embarrassment couldn't suppress the smile there. He scooped up his things and headed home.

\--

The following evening, Jean stayed behind after the audience began to dissipate, keeping his distance from Marco as they left. Part of him harbored some insane notion that if he got too close, the storyteller would literally disappear right before his eyes. So he stood still, waiting for others to leave and watching Marco patiently. To his pleasant surprise, the other man stayed back as well, and when it was only the two of them left, he approached Jean with a warm smile.

"I'm glad you stayed," he said, and Jean nodded quickly.

"You asked me to," he replied, and then - realizing how uncaring he sounded - added; "and I wanted to."

Marco smiled, and motioned to the walking path that circled the park. "Time for a walk?" he asked, and Jean followed him onto it.

They walked a slow, leisurely lap, talking about their week at work and about getting the coffee stains out of their clothes from their last encounter. They joked and laughed and it felt so comfortable and _natural_ that Jean didn't mind the chill in the air as the last traces of sunlight were replaced by stars.

"Wish I didn't have work in the morning," he grumbled, feeling a little bit childish for doing so, but Marco squeezed his arm and he let his frustration fly away with the cool evening breeze. "I'd love to uh... talk to you some more... sometime soon." He didn't have time to say what he really wanted to - to ask him out properly. Marco beat him to the punch.

"Are you doing anything tomorrow afternoon? We could grab lunch somewhere."

Jean stared at him for a moment and then shook his head automatically. "Tomorrow - like during the day?"

"Well, if you're not busy that is," Marco smiled. Jean nodded, slowly.

"I... yeah, that sounds great. I just... didn't expect you to be a lunch kinda guy." He laughed in hopes of hiding what was really going through his mind: he'd never seen Marco anywhere during the daylight hours, and something about the idea seemed foreign. That, and he hadn't actually had a single date with _anyone_ since arriving in Maria months before. He didn't want to seem as entirely out of practice as he was.

"I'm not a vampire, you know," Marco teased, and Jean felt himself flush. "I just thought it'd be easier on both of us, since Monday morning comes early."

"Yeah. Good point."

They walked into the parking lot, scarcely populated as few people remained inside the park. Jean hit the automatic lock and popped open his trunk, tossing his things inside.

"So how about you meet me at the little coffee shop where I saw you last time?" Marco suggested. "Since we both know where that is."

"The Rose Wall? Sounds like a plan - say around two?"

"Sounds like a plan," Marco echoed, and slid a hand down Jean's arm again. He turned to walk away and waved once over his shoulder, calling out as he did. "Goodnight, Jean!"

Jean leaned forward into his trunk to shift his things around so that the hinges wouldn't crush anything, then slammed the hatch closed as he stood back up. "Goodnight!" he shouted in response, waving at the spot where Marco had been standing, but the other man was gone again.

He laughed under his breath, still a bit spooked but by then almost _reverent_ of Marco's ability to simply vanish. He made a loop around the lot once, but saw no cars leaving as he did. On his way home he wondered what Marco drove, where he lived, about his life outside the park. Jean had painted him into a tiny frame in his mind, and he wondered what things were like for Marco beyond its edges. He wondered _a lot_ about him, but as he prepared for bed that night, he wondered more about the day to come, and just what a lunch date with the inhuman Marco Bodt would entail.

\--

_The clatter of people working with machinery permeates the air, as Jean looks down at his hands. In them are straps, and though part of him knows that he's never seen them before, his fingers move automatically, twisting them around his legs and securing them at his hips. He slings another set over his shoulders and reaches behind himself, struggling to grasp for the buckles. When he's finally almost gotten them, another pair of hands are on his, gently moving them away and taking up the buckles instead._

_"You could've just said something," a familiar voice says quietly, and a warm presence behind him settles on his shoulder as the freckled soldier boy rests his head there._

_Marco._

_"Didn't need help," Jean breathes, not sure why he's saying it, and the sound of the other's soft laughter does little to clarify things._

_"Right, right," the boy chuckles, fastening one of the straps. "That tight enough?" He presses his mouth against the skin of Jean's neck and waits there._

_"Tighter," Jean whispers, and the straps tighten another notch._

_"How's that?" he asks again, his lips resting right beside Jean's ear now as his hands skate over the clothed skin of his back. His breath is warm against an already sweat dampened face. Jean shudders and nods._

_"Good enough. Thanks, Marco." He turns to face him, stretches his arms under the tight grip of the chest straps, and leans up just slightly to look him in the eye before kissing him quickly. "Now let's get out there before the other guys start asking questions."_

 

The daydream he'd had over breakfast that morning stayed with him the rest of the day. As in most of the others, it was Marco - or some version of him, anyway - that was there, interacting with him in a world that looked like it was straight out of the stories he told. This had been the first time they'd done anything much more than speak to each other though, and the thought of dream-Marco's hands and lips on him was extremely distracting. Even as he sat in the coffee shop waiting for the real Marco, he couldn't shake the image of the cute soldier boy, blushing just slightly as they stole secret kisses from each other.

He must've looked anxious when Marco arrived, because the expression on the storyteller's face was one of comfort and reassurance. It worked; even if Jean hadn't been happy to see him before, he definitely was when he saw his smile. Marco casually ran a hand over his shoulders when they greeted each other, and Jean leaned into the touch, unconsciously.

"How are you?" They asked- accidentally in unison - and broke into laughter together as well.

"You look really nice," Marco said warmly. Jean ran a hand through his hair and grinned.

"Thanks. You look pretty great, yourself." It was true; Marco looked as spellbinding as ever, but something was different. His skin was almost shining, different than the ambient glow he usually had in the low light of the evening. His eyes, too, seemed to sparkle in the sunlight piercing the windows of the shop. He was dressed more casually than usual, and it was remarkably charming. Jean only realized he'd been staring when Marco raised an eyebrow and laughed.

"I'll try not to pour my drink all over you this time around," he joked, trying to ignore the fact that he'd been caught gawking. Marco grinned and they got in line to order their lunch, talking like old friends right away.

\--

"I hope you didn't mind me writing in your sketch pad the other day. I really do love your work; you're really incredible." Marco swirled his drink in his hand and smiled down at it as he spoke. When he glanced back up at Jean the glint of red seemed to appear in his eyes again, and Jean felt a small shiver run down his spine.

"Thanks. I really wish I had your gift for creativity, though. _You're_ the incredible one." Jean said it quietly, looking anywhere but at Marco's eyes. "Your stories are really art in their own right, and you have so many. I wish I knew your secret." He laughed, but Marco didn't, and he suddenly worried he'd said something wrong.

"It's... it's really not as nice as you might think," Marco said after a moment. He stared down at his half eaten sandwich and exhaled sharply.

"We don't have to talk about it," said Jean hastily. "I didn't mean to--"

"No, it's not... I don't mind telling you a little bit."

"Telling me?"

Marco folded his arms on the table and sighed. "The ideas for my stories. They come from a really dark place - nightmares and strange memories I have. They used to happen constantly, but sharing the stories actually helps. It's like once I get them out, they don't bother me as much." He shook his head. "Sorry. That probably sounds really strange, but--"

"Not at all!" Jean spouted, clasping a hand over one of Marco's arms. It was the first time he'd seen Marco appear so vulnerable and genuinely _human_ , and he wasn't going to let him feel badly about it. "In fact, I can relate. After I started listening to your stuff, I started having weird dreams too. Like about the people in your stories and--" he cut himself off, too embarrassed to admit that he had frequent fantasies about a Marco look-alike. "I don't know, it's weird; it's like I actually _see_ the characters you describe, too. Here in town, I mean - in real life. They're everywhere! It's probably just my imagination, but it's like they're all real people." He thought he saw the strange gleam in Marco's eyes again as he finished talking, but the storyteller's relieved smile was enough to quiet his curiosity.

"I'm sorry if my stories gave you nightmares," Marco teased, and Jean jabbed him playfully in the ribs.

"It's no big deal," he shrugged. "Besides, most of the dreams aren't so bad anymore. I don't mind 'em so much." He thought about the image of the gorgeous soldier from his frequent visions ghosting his mouth across Jean's skin, and bit his lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.

"You know, it's funny that you mention all of that, though." Marco said. "When you came to the park that first weekend - when I saw you for the first time - I had a feeling I'd seen you before. Almost like I know you from somewhere." He laughed to himself. "That probably sounds odd, too."

"No, I... that's actually how I feel about you. Like you're familiar somehow. I... I totally get it." He slid a hand over the back of one of Marco's, and Marco took the chance to thread their fingers together, smiling.

\--

Jean had every intention of them going somewhere else or doing something more exciting than sitting in a coffee shop all day, but that was exactly what they ended up doing. They talked for hours, holding hands for most of that time. Jean noted how warm Marco's skin was under his fingers, and found himself missing that warmth every time their hands parted.

"So you tell stories in the park in your spare time, but what else do you like to do?" Jean asked, his mind's eye set on more dates. "What else do you usually do with your nights?"

When Marco smirked mischievously in response, Jean was absolutely _certain_ he saw the flash of red in his eyes. Marco shrugged one shoulder, still grinning.

"Not much, really. I don't have much time with work and all. But--" he reached across the table and looped fingers around Jean's again. "I've got a free weekend coming up, and I'd really like to spend some of it with you, if you'd be interested. You're still fairly new to Maria - maybe I can show you around a little bit."

Jean nodded hastily. He pulled his phone from his pocket to ask for Marco's number, but forgot to ask when he glimpsed the time and realized with a quiet laugh just how long they'd been sitting in the coffee shop. "Guess we should probably cut out of here soon," he sighed, and Marco stood and pulled him up after, still holding onto his arm as they walked toward door. As they stepped through the doors, he slid his phone down his side, aiming for his pocket. His stomach turned when he felt it slip through his fingers and tumble toward the stone sidewalk instead, landing face down at his feet.

"Shit!" He groaned, sure from the sound that the screen was shattered on the pavement. Marco bent down to pick it up, tapping and brushing his hand across the screen a few times before handing it back to Jean.

"No harm done!" he said brightly. He was right; the phone was in perfect condition. Jean sighed in relief and dropped the phone in his pocket, leaving his hands there. He was only slightly taken aback when Marco curled his own fingers over the fabric of his pockets as well, burying them against Jean's palms. Jean stared up at him, not sure what to say next, but searching his mind for _something_ to keep the conversation from ending. He leaned slightly onto the wall of the shop as he spoke, careful not to move his hands or disturb Marco's.

"So you're from Maria, but I don't think I've ever asked where exactly you live," he settled on. It was a loaded question, bearing all of the curiosity he had struggled to conceal over the past few weeks. Marco seemed to notice; his smile was more guarded, but his voice was as smooth and even as ever when he replied.

"Not too far from here, actually. It's not much, but maybe I can show you my place," - he leaned in toward Jean and pressed their foreheads together - "... next time."

This time, Jean didn't miss his chance. He clasped a hand gently around the back of Marco's neck and brought their lips together.

It was meant to be brief - almost imitating the short kisses he'd dreamt of exchanging with the freckled soldier boy - but then his fingers were sliding through Marco's soft hair and he felt hands running down his sides and over his hips. The feeling of Marco's lips parting on his was all at once foreign and familiar, and it reignited that hot feeling in his chest, sending it lower as his body responded to Marco's soft sighing. When they stepped apart again, he could feel his cheeks and ears beginning to burn, but Marco looked as collected as ever.

"Today was nice," he breathed, and Jean nodded numbly. "I'm glad I have next weekend to look forward to." He took the tips of Jean's fingers in his hands and smiled.

"Likewise," Jean hastily agreed.

Marco gave him another quick kiss, and then he was backing away, presumably heading for the parking lot on the building's other side, waving as he walked. Jean waved after him, having grown more accustomed to his knack for disappearing, even briefly wondering if he might actually just _vanish_ once he was out of Jean's line of sight. He didn't chase him, didn't even watch after him the entire way; something in him had accepted that Marco had some magical way of always being gone when he looked for him, and for the sake of his sanity he resolved not to do so that night. He had better things to think about - like another date coming up, and Marco's promise to _show him his place_.

 

Putting his car in gear to pull out of the lot, Jean suddenly remembered that he hadn't actually made a solid plan for the next weekend with Marco. In fact, he wasn't even sure how to contact him, let alone where to find him. He pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time, wondering - maybe a bit illogically - if perhaps he could still catch him somewhere along the route home. _He'd said he lived close by, after all..._

When the screen lit up he couldn't help but laugh. His contacts screen was pulled up, and a new number was listed there: _'Marco'._

He laid the phone down on the passenger seat beside him, smiled at his rear view mirror and absently sang along to every song on the radio on his way home.

\--

The next week was the best he could remember having during his time in Maria.

A steady, cheerful exchange of texts between he and Marco began on Monday afternoon, and carried him through his work day. A 'good morning' in his inbox when he woke up on Tuesday had him smiling before he even made it to his office, and he was so chipper as he headed out to lunch that Connie and Bert stopped to stare at him as he passed.

"What's the good news, boss?" Connie shouted, following a few strides behind him. Jean shrugged but didn't stop grinning.

"Just a nice day, is all," he called back, and Connie laughed.

"Right. So you must've finally made your move with story boy, huh?"

"I'm gonna make a move to have you transferred to Bert's division if you don't stop hounding me about my damned personal life!" Behind Connie, Bert shook his head and made a slashing motion across his throat at the comment. Jean laughed out loud, prompting Bert to finally do the same. Against his better reasoning, he waited for the other two at the doorway and they headed off to lunch together.

 

The days seemed to slip by much more quickly that week, as happy, vaguely flirtatious texts flew back and forth between he and Marco. Jean planned their date with the giddy excitement of a teenager; he even agonized over what to wear, inwardly chastising himself afterward for being so ridiculous. But as soon as he phone buzzed with another message from Marco, he forgot to be angry with himself.

Things were going so well that when he awoke late Thursday night in a cold sweat - jolted from his sleep by a terrifying nightmare - it caught him completely off guard. His dreams had been increasingly pleasant, if not still strange since meeting Marco in person, and this was anything but. The horrifying images seemed burnt to the back of his eyelids, creeping back into sight every time he closed his eyes again.

 

_Soldiers - dozens of them - gathered around in a huge, broken circle. A pile of bodies, taller than any of them, lit on fire as they watched. The glow of the flame as it consumed flesh. The sounds of crying, the smell of bones charring, turning to ash that darkened the air. The gut wrenching feeling of loss, bitter and burning as it settled somewhere permanent._

 

Jean wiped his forehead and ran a hand through his dampened hair. There was still an entire night between himself and the coming day, and sleep didn't seem likely. He watched the screen of his phone as the clock in the corner changed, along with the date as midnight hit. He slid the lock open and fired off a text message to Marco, still a bit too dazed from his sudden awakening to think better of it.

**_Tonight fucking sucks..._ **

He regretted it almost as soon as he'd sent it. Marco was probably asleep, and could certainly do without waking up to Jean's whiny texts. Throwing the covers from his legs he twisted himself to one side, intent on rummaging through his fridge for something to down a few aspirin with. When his phone buzzed, he flopped back down, surprised.

**_What's wrong?_ **

He felt a strange mix of excitement and guilt, knowing he was surely keeping Marco from sleeping. He responded quickly, lying back on his bed as he typed.

**_Can't sleep. It's not that big a deal though. Sorry if I woke you up._ **

To his surprise, an answer came almost instantly.

**_I was awake anyway. Can't sleep myself. Would you like to call me? We can talk about it._ **

Before he'd even finished reading the text, he was hitting the 'Call' tab beside Marco's name.

"Hello?" Marco said, in a low, quiet voice Jean hadn't heard much of before. He didn't sound tired, just softer - _sexier_ \- and it made Jean shiver. He was immensely glad Marco wasn't there to see him so worked up, and he shivered again when he imagined what it would be like if he _was_.

"Hey," he breathed, all thoughts of going to the kitchen pushed aside as he propped the phone against his ear on the bed. "Sorry to call you, I just--"

"I asked you to call me," Marco reminded him. "So... nightmare?"

The 'Marco has strange magical powers' theory flashed across his mind again as he gave a shaky laugh. "Yeah. What are you, a mind reader?"

Marco laughed. It occurred to Jean's sleep deprived brain that he didn't actually _deny_ having amazing psychic abilities, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Jean promised himself he'd pursue that question further another time. He tuned back in to the conversation at hand in time to hear Marco speak.

"I can just relate, is all."

"As weird as it sounds, I'm kinda glad," Jean admitted, and Marco chuckled again.

They talked about Jean's dream. They talked about some of Marco's. They talked about sleeping habits, eating habits and _bedroom_ habits and Jean hoped Marco couldn't hear the way his breathing shallowed as his pulse picked up. Nothing seemed to faze Marco though, and every time he laughed, Jean felt that familiar tickle in his chest. It was after four when he realized just how long they'd been talking.

"Oh God, I didn't mean to keep you up all night!" He groaned, sure that the next day at work was going to be terrible, and hoping the same wouldn't be true for Marco. "I guess I don't know when to shut up."

"Yeah; I guess always lose track of time with you. But it's fine." Marco said, and Jean could actually _hear_ the smile in his voice. "I've done my fair share of talking tonight, too - and I enjoyed it. No one I've dated before has been such a good listener."

Jean's chest felt like it was turning inside out, heart pausing for a moment as he mumbled a response.

"Dated?" he repeated. "We're... _dating?"_

Marco laughed again. "Well - aren't we? Aren't people who go on dates together _dating_ , by definition?" He sounded so smug, part of Jean wanted to be pissed at him for it. But his mind was mostly busy, spinning in excited circles over a single word.

"Yeah; I guess we are." He giggled - _actually fucking giggled_ \- and immediately wanted to punch himself in the face. On the other end of the line, he could hear more contented laughter, and told himself to just be glad that Marco was still even associating with him after that.

"I think I'm going to try to get a nap in before work today. You should probably do the same," Marco said. "But this was more fun than it probably should've been, and I'm looking forward to this weekend even more now."

Jean agreed, and after several more minutes of prolonged goodbyes, they hung up. He set an alarm, telling himself that maybe he'd just call in sick later, and buried his face under his blankets. The thought of his awful dream was long forgotten, but it had been replaced by more persistent ones.

He and Marco were _dating_ now. He was dating a guy who he was still at least partially convinced wasn't a normal human being. He tried in vain to sleep, finally giving up and deciding to make himself breakfast instead. As he stood in front of the stove, thinking about the possibility of having a _boyfriend_ who was some kind of unexplainable magical being, he decided that the part that bothered him the most about the whole situation was the fact that it really didn't bother him at all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another longer chapter this time, but I hope that it was worth the wait. I was really self indulgent with the imagery here; it's probably more obvious than ever where I see this as being set. This chapter was actually one of my favorite things to write so far, so I'm pretty happy with it, and I hope you guys will be too!
> 
> Enjoy, and thanks for all the comments and kudos so far! :)
> 
> \--

Jean was still pulling his shirt on when the door buzzer sounded on Saturday evening.

He'd spent the entire day - and much of the day before - keeping himself busy, so he wouldn't have time to overthink things with Marco. So preoccupied he'd been with avoiding worrying about the details of their date that by the time Marco arrived at his condo, he wasn't anywhere near ready for it. He answered the door anyway, and tried to look a little more pulled together than he felt.

"Hey," Marco said simply, standing at the door step. He was wearing slim cut khakis and a white button up shirt, topped with a brown jacket. Everything from the patch on his breast pocket to his disarming smile seemed strikingly familiar - far deeper a sense of recognition than was due a person he'd only met weeks earlier - and Jean was caught off guard by the return of his deja vu.

"Hey," he finally replied, stepping backward to invite Marco inside. "I'm almost good to go. Come on in and hang out for a minute."

"Thanks," Marco smiled as he stepped in after him, glancing around Jean's apartment. "Your place is really nice."

"Oh, thanks," Jean said, poking his head into his closet. "Still doesn't quite feel like home yet, but I like it. You have any trouble finding it?"

Marco laughed. "No, the half dozen 'Trost Towers' signs on the way here made it pretty hard to get lost." He leaned against the wall beside the door and smiled when Jean gave him a half-hearted glare. "It's a little chilly outside, by the way. Might wanna grab a jacket."

"Noted," Jean smirked, and threw a coat over his arm. He wondered if Marco was planning for them to be outside much, considering how nicely he was dressed. Of course this _was_ the man who typically wore a dress shirt and tie to sit on a blanket in the park. Jean laughed to himself and turned to see Marco still watching him fondly.

"Ready to go?"

Jean nodded and followed Marco out the door, stopping to arm his security system before he left, and privately hoping he wouldn't be back that evening. Maybe Marco was thinking the same thing - he threw a knowing glance over his shoulder on their way to the elevator that made Jean's pulse quicken.

\--

If he was honest with himself, Jean was half surprised at the notion that Marco actually owned a car. He'd never seen him anywhere near one, and in Jean's mind he'd created several explanations as to how Marco got around - none of them very plausible. When Marco had offered to pick him up for their night out he'd tried to hide his shock. Wondering what kind of car Marco drove had occupied more of his time than he was willing to admit, but Marco didn't seem to be aware of the novelty of the situation as he made his way through the lot.

He fiddled with his keychain and the lights of a dark red sedan blinked twice as the car's locks clicked. He popped the passenger's side door open and left it that way for Jean. Jean was glad Marco didn't wait by the door for him to climb inside; he stopped for a moment to just _look_ at the entirely _ordinary_ car. It was older, but well cared for and spotless. When he finally did sit down, he saw that the interior was much the same - clean, comfortable and extremely average looking. It was all so _normal_ ; Jean felt unsettled by the complete difference from whatever intrigue he'd expected, and couldn't think of much to say as they left the parking garage.

Marco seemed to notice; he turned on the radio, tapping at buttons until a soft melody drowned the silence.

"Feel free to change it if you'd like," he said. Jean shook his head.

"Nah, this is fine," he replied, barely aware of what they were even listening to. "So where exactly are we headed?" He realized they hadn't actually discussed it, and felt a little guilty for only bothering to ask once they'd already left.

"My neighborhood," Marco said with an unfazed smile. "You see the main roads of Maria everyday, but you never really know the city until you see places like Lake Sina."

"There's a _lake_ in this city?"

Marco laughed. "You really don't get out much, do you?" Jean frowned and looked out the window sourly until a hand cupped the back of his.

"To answer your question, it's not much of a lake - more like a big pond. But I think you'll like it."

Jean nodded, looking back out the window as the buildings they were passing became smaller. Marco was a calm driver, and that eased the tension just enough that Jean found himself tapping his fingers on his seat in time with the ambient music. He watched the scenery outside become increasingly unfamiliar, until it seemed like they were in another city altogether. The promise of going to a lake hadn't been one that had immediately interested him, but he trusted that Marco might know something that he didn't.

As soon as Marco parked the car however, Jean knew that his trust in him had been well placed. Marco was beside his door before he realized he'd gotten out of the car, and he held it patiently as Jean slowly climbed out. Jean took in their surroundings, feeling like his breath had been taken by the gentle sweep of autumn air that passed as he looked out over the water.

Lake Sina was definitely small, but the white stone wall that surrounded its border gave it a striking presence against the darkness of the early evening. The surface of the water glistened with the reflections of street lamps and moonlight. It rippled placidly, matching the slow pace of the handful of couples strolling on the decorative stone walkway just beyond the wall. Short trees strung with simple white lights stood around the path, a few of them with benches beneath their branches. The scene glowed with a warm, inviting light that pulled Jean toward it. He tried to suppress his wide grin when he turned back to look at Marco, but it was no use.

"This place is incredible," he almost laughed, glancing back to the lake a few more times to be sure he wasn't imagining the scenery. He could already envision the artwork he could create after seeing it. Marco smiled with satisfaction, arms crossed as he stood propped against the side of the car, watching him. He was looking at him like _Jean_ was the breathtaking sight.

"Told you that you'd like it."

"Like it? I love it! I love..." He stopped short of saying something he was afraid to be sure of yet. Instead, he crossed the short distance between them and planted his hands on the car on either side of Marco, diving in to kiss him. Marco hummed against his lips contentedly; the way he looked pinned beneath him would have stolen Jean's breath again if he wasn't already too busy to breathe. He slipped his hands into Marco's when he stepped back, tugging him into a lopsided hug without ever letting their fingers part.

He knew other people could probably see them, and somehow that made it feel more intimate. Marco had brought him to this beautiful little place and trusted him to appreciate it, to see the beauty in it. As they made their way slowly toward the wall around the water, he likened it to Marco himself; an intriguing, beautiful thing in an unexpected place.

"So you live nearby?"

Marco nodded. "Just a few minutes away, actually. This part of Maria is a lot cozier than uptown, I think. Pretty, and quiet too. I like it here."

"It's gorgeous," Jean agreed. "Makes sense that you live around here. This place reminds me of you."

"You think I'm gorgeous?" Marco's sideways grin was teasing, but genuine. Jean shrugged but didn't bother to deny it.

"Well, yeah. But that's not what I was getting at. It's... interesting. Unique. Special. And I probably sound like an idiot right now."

"Not in the slightest," Marco said warmly. "I'm glad you like the lake. And I'm really glad you like me."

"How could I not?" Jean looked down at his feet and tried to wipe the ridiculously giddy expression from his face. "You're literally perfect." _Inhumanly so_ , he thought. Marco chuckled and shook his head.

"I assure you, I'm not. I have as much baggage tucked in my closet as anyone else."

"That's ok. With me, I mean." Jean had at least half a dozen theories about what kind of secrets Marco might be hiding in that baggage, and not a single one made him any less interested. If anything he wanted to _see_ it - like he wanted to see more of Marco - in every way possible. "I don't mind."

Marco stopped their slow strolling to look over the wall, his hand still in Jean's. He watched the water for a moment, and when he turned back to look at Jean the reflections from its surface danced across his smiling face.

"Glad to hear it."

\--

"And most of the staff just thinks I'm gonna be some lonely old man with a house full of cats. The assistant principal is always trying to set me up with people - all of them women, bless her heart."

"They don't know you're gay?" Jean felt odd asking. They talked about a little bit of everything as they made leisurely laps around the lake, but he didn't expect talk of work to become quite so personal. Marco just shrugged, glancing above him like he was remembering something.

"I like to keep my personal life private," he said simply. "Probably wouldn't go over so well if I made a big deal about it anyway, so I tend to just let people think whatever they like about me."

Jean nodded, mostly because it was more than obvious to him that Marco was very good at letting people make their own assumptions about him. He squeezed Marco's hand in what he hoped seemed like reassurance. Marco returned the gesture and then pointed to a small cart selling food on the edge of the walkway. He led Jean after him toward it, still talking as they approached the short line waiting in front of the vendor.

"What about you? I don't imagine you talk to your office buddies much about your love life."

Jean rolled his eyes just _thinking_ about Connie and some of the others. "Not when I can avoid it," he conceded. "Which is almost never. I work with some nosey assholes."

"I thought you liked your coworkers," Marco countered, stepping closer to the food cart. Jean tilted his free hand back and forth in a wavering motion.

"They're alright. My boss can be terrifying when she wants to, but she's a good person to work for. And I've got friends there, it's just that they're usually more annoying than the people I don't like. Still, I guess I kind of owe Connie one, if nothing else."

"For what?"

Jean looked up at the tiny menu board and read the selections under his breath before turning back to answer Marco. "He and his wife were the ones who convinced me to come to the park for the first time to hear you speak. They used to be regulars there when the weather was warmer. You might have seen him - short guy, keeps his hair buzzed off?"

"Wife with brown hair that's way out of his league?" Marco grinned. Jean widened his eyes and shook his head.

"That girl's crazy, though. Trust me - those two are _perfect_ for each other. And like I said, I guess I owe them one."

Marco nodded. "That makes two of us."

Jean ordered his food, pulling out his wallet when a paper tray of sugary beignets slid toward him. Marco put a hand out to stop him and added his own order to Jean's, quickly paying for both before Jean could argue.

"You didn't need to do that," Jean grumbled after the fact. Marco bit into one of his own fried treats before waving it dismissively in Jean's direction.

"I know that. But I asked you to come out with me tonight. You and your corporate paychecks can pick up the tab next time." He finished with a wink and a lick of his sugar dusted lips. Jean raised an eyebrow and grinned.

"I'll hold you to that."

"I hope so," Marco smirked. He bit into another sugary square slowly, his expression slipping into a smoldering stare. Jean swallowed the thick feeling in his throat and began to speak, but he was cut off when Marco blew powdered sugar at him. When Marco dissolved into laughter Jean returned fire, and soon they were both half covered in a splotchy dusting of white. Brushing each other off was fun; thinking about how good Marco would taste if they hadn't was even more so. Jean couldn't keep himself from grinning as they returned to walking, with traces of sugar still clinging to spots begging to be discovered, _later_.

\--

Marco's charm was undeniable; Jean was sure he'd never smiled so much in one day in his entire life. Conversation came so easily, and the feeling of Marco's hand on his was comfortable to the point of seeming familiar, even though it was still fairly new for him. Marco was the first man he'd ever been so open about dating, the first one he'd ever felt so entirely interested in. When their shoulders bumped as they walked hand in hand, Jean felt the same fondness from his visions and dreams of the freckled soldier boy wash over him at the feeling of Marco's fingers laced with his. When they passed a vacant bench they sat down, and Marco draped an arm across his shoulders.

"You alright?" He was looking at Jean with a little more hesitation than before. Under Marco's stare, Jean realized that his face was hot. Maybe he was a little embarrassed by the way he was acting, giddy and completely outside of himself. Perhaps he was still a little anxious, feeling so attached to someone he still knew so little about. He did his best to rein it in, flashing his most convincing smile.

"Yeah, I'm good. Never better, actually."

Marco sighed happily and sat back, looking out over the water again. Jean settled back into the curve of his outstretched arm and felt Marco's fingers curl over his shoulder. Watching the reflections in the lake turn from the light of lanterns to that of stars, Jean relaxed against Marco's side and breathed deeply.

"So this was ok, then?" Marco asked, wrapping his arm a little tighter. Jean laughed.

"Definitely. It was a nice change of pace from the office, that's for sure."

"I told you Maria was full of surprises."

"Well I hope this isn't the last one," Jean smirked at him and leaned up to kiss him, still more than a little excited about the fact that he could do so whenever he wanted. Marco pulled them closer together and broke the kiss to whisper against his ear.

"Would you like to come back to my place for a drink?"

Jean nodded without pause. Marco laughed under his breath and gave him one more quick kiss, and then they were walking back toward the car, Jean's head spinning as he tried to keep hold of whatever dignity he had left by not _running_ to get there.

\--

The drive was shorter than a single song playing softly in the background. They didn't speak any more than they had on the way to the lake, but Marco drove with one hand clasping Jean's knee, and the passenger's seat seemed infinitely more comfortable than it had before. Marco took a right turn onto a sparsely populated road with a 'Dead End' sign posted under the street name panel.

"Jinae," Jean whispered to himself, memorizing the name. Marco pulled the car into a small, open parking lot. A single street light illuminated the entire lot, sized for only a dozen cars or so. Marco turned the ignition off with a contented sigh and glanced out the window at the apartment complex situated a few yards away.

"Home, sweet home." He turned back to Jean and grinned before stepping out of the car. As he walked around the back, Jean watched him, all the while wondering what he was about to see inside Marco's home. When Marco opened his door, he gave him a grateful smile and took his offered hand to pull himself from the seat.

"Thanks, Prince Charming," he smirked, and Marco chuckled softly. They kept hold of each other's hands as they climbed weathered wooden stairs from the lot to the walkway in front of the apartments. The units were single story, arranged into what looked like small, connected houses. Some had small gardens or flower beds in their tiny yards, others had wreaths on their doors or well worn welcome mats below their doors. It was a far cry from the sleek, sterile look of Jean's condo, and an even further departure from what he was expecting.

"This is me," Marco said quietly, flipping through his keys for the right one. Jean glanced up at the plaque above the door; it had a large brass number seven on it. Before he could take note of anything else, the door was swinging open, and he followed Marco through it. Marco reached up the wall near the doorway and a light flickered on; Jean stood stone still for a moment, just looking around.

Marco's home looked like just that - a _home._ It was tidy and comfortably furnished, warmly lit and inviting. Nothing like the mysterious den he'd convinced himself that his new boyfriend surely lived in, Jean found it to be as charming as everything else about Marco. The door closed softly behind him, and he turned to see Marco grinning as he shrugged his jacket from his shoulders.

"You sure you're alright?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm good." Jean rubbed the back of his neck and smiled sheepishly. "This just isn't exactly what I was expecting."

Marco half frowned and glanced around the small living room they were standing in. "I know it's not much." A pang of guilt tightened Jean's throat, and he choked out an apology before Marco could say anything else.

"Oh, no - God, _no,_ Marco - this place is great! I just meant... well I'm not sure what I was expecting, but this is better than whatever that was, trust me."

Marco responded with a roll of the eyes and a lopsided grin as he laid his things down on an end table and shuffled out of the room.

"Make yourself at home," he called over his shoulder, and the smoothness of his voice reminded Jean of the many nights he'd spent listening to him in the park. "I'll be right there."

The pop of a cork punctuated the otherwise quite atmosphere as Jean settled himself on the leather couch in the center of the room's furthest wall. It sank when he sat and he released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding as he relaxed into the soft seat. Still a bit too anxious to poke around like he wanted to, he tried to enjoy the plush couch and the peaceful silence of Marco's apartment for what they were.

"Dry LaRosa ok with you?" Marco asked when he returned to the room, two full glasses in his hands. "It's from a little winery nearby."

"More than," Jean replied honestly. He wasn't exactly ready for Marco to know that he was the kind of guy who would drink just about anything offered to him; good alcohol was something he rarely spent his own money on. He took the glass offered to him and tapped it against Marco's, took a sip and nearly _moaned_.

"That good?" Marco teased. Jean nodded.

"Flawless. You have good taste."

"I'd say that I do," Marco grinned, and Jean thought he saw a faint trace of red flash across his eyes. He sat beside Jean and kicked his shoes onto the floor. "So why don't you _actually_ get comfortable? You look like you're at your grandmother's house or something, sitting like that."

Jean scowled. "It's called being polite, _sir_. What do you want me to do, lie down and take a nap?"

"If that's what you'd do at home."

Jean eyed him for a moment before kicking off his own shoes and draping his legs right across Marco's lap. To his slight surprise Marco didn't seem fazed by his little display in the least, and clasped his hands over Jean's ankles with a contented sigh. He closed his eyes; Jean took another sip of wine and stared at him.

For all of his intrigue and mystery, Marco was as much a playful spirit as he was a peaceful soul. The parts of him that the world saw every day were so ordinary that it was jarring in comparison to the parts of him that Jean was only beginning to learn about. He'd been more than right about the city of Maria - it was more interesting and full of secrets and surprises than Jean could've imagined - and Jean was beginning to feel like the town was a symbol for Marco himself. There was so much he didn't understand about him, but the little that he knew felt so hauntingly familiar and made him desperate to see more. He finished off his drink while still swimming through his thoughts.

"Would you like more?"

Marco's voice was amused and Jean felt his face heat up a bit when he heard it. He shrugged but Marco was already holding the glass in his hand steady to refill it. Once it was again full of wine, he wrapped his fingers over Jean's and rubbed small circles there, smiling.

"Thanks," Jean said quietly. Marco nodded and leaned in to kiss him. After a moment he sat back, an apologetic expression on his face.

"Is everything ok?" he asked quickly, and Jean realized he could probably sense the tension still settled in his shoulders. "If there's something wrong--"

"There's _nothing_ wrong," Jean insisted. "Everything has been great. Everything."

Marco didn't seem satisfied with his answer. "You just seem uncomfortable. If there's anything you want to talk about, you should know by now that I'd like to listen."

Jean nodded, and tried to organize his thoughts. He _did_ want to talk to Marco - he wanted all of the things that were weighing down his mind to release their grip and he wanted to say it all eloquently. As soon as he opened his mouth however, his thoughts came spilling out faster than he could think to bridle them.

"It's just that... you really confuse me. Like when I met you - which I barely even really did, more like I just kind of watched you, which sounds weird when I say it like that - anyway, I just thought you were so interesting. That's why I started drawing you, and coming to the park every weekend, or at least that's why I thought it was at first. But I really just wanted to see you, 'cause I just wanted to know more about you. And the closer I got to figuring you out the more I found out I was completely wrong about everything. I'm at least halfway convinced that you're not even fucking human because you're so perfect and gorgeous and mysterious and shit, and then it turns out you drive a normal car and live in this nice little apartment and you're just a regular guy. But you're not that either, because how did I only start having all these crazy ass dreams after I met you, and why does it feel like I've known you for ages when I barely know anything about you? I don't even know who or what you are and logically that should freak me the hell out, but it doesn't and that's what's really weird about you and me. I like you way more than-- I honestly think I _love_ you, and it's just a lot to think about all at once. I just..." He trailed off, out of breath and sure he'd probably blown things with Marco permanently. He stared at Marco's unreadable expression for a moment before dropping his burning face into his hands.

"I'm sorry," he groaned from between his fingers. "That was all pretty weird and I didn't mean to-- I can go if you want."

He felt a tug on both of his hands and let Marco pull them away. He looked up in time to see Marco smiling widely before nudging his chin forward for another kiss. The tension he'd felt for weeks bubbled into relieved laughter that he couldn't hold back; Marco joined him and they grinned and snickered as they nipped at each other's lips, still tasting hints of leftover sugar. When they parted Marco held his chin, looking at him adoringly.

"So you're not pissed at me?" Jean asked sheepishly, sure that his face was probably an embarrassing shade of red. "I didn't mean to ramble like th--"

"I'm glad you did," Marco cut in. "I'm interested in what you think, especially if it's about you and me."

"You're not upset that I said you weren't normal?"

"What _is_ normal?" Marco laughed when he sat back, and ran his hand down Jean's side. He gave Jean a mischievous sideways glance and scooted closer, closing the last few inches between them. "Although, I'd say if you were thinking all of that and still agreed to go out with me, then maybe _you're_ the strange one."

"Maybe I am," Jean breathed. He moved up onto his knees; Marco grinned and leaned in toward him.

"Maybe you should show me." His voice was lower - almost a growl - and the glint of red in his eyes was more pronounced than ever.

The prickly heat of excitement gave way to searing _need_ as Jean's body responded almost outside of his control. He reached out to clutch the collar of Marco's shirt and pulled their faces flush against each other, rolling his hips forward just enough to feel that he wasn't alone in his arousal. "Likewise," he whispered.

Marco pressed his lips beside Jean's mouth and hummed softly as he slid his arms under Jean's legs to lift him from the couch in one smooth motion. His voice was thick with promise as he carried him toward a dimly lit back room, the empty wine glasses forgotten on the floor behind them.

"I'm _planning_ on it."

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--
> 
> So the next chapter is basically just smut, but the story should still make sense without it, so feel free to skip it if that's not your cup of tea!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooookay, so this chapter - as I previously mentioned - is basically just adult content, and I specifically wrote it to be an 'optional' chapter if you're not into that kind of thing. Fair warning: officially issued.
> 
> That being said, a big thanks as always goes out to Deb for the ideas that ultimately became this story, and for giving me permission to bring it to life! 
> 
> And thank all of you guys for reading! Your readership and feedback mean the world! :)
> 
> \--

The minute Marco backed them through the door to his bedroom, Jean bucked out of his arms, perhaps snapping at him a little more than he might've if the drinks had been spaced out a bit further.

"Put me down, Marco, c'mon. I'm not a fucking princess." His arms were still slung around Marco's neck, and Jean looked over one of his shoulders to keep Marco from making out the blush that was most definitely _not_ from the wine. "You don't have to handle me like I'm breakable."

"Oh?" Marco grinned, and pushed Jean roughly back against the door to close it. Jean blinked against the darkness of the room, willing his eyes to adjust before Marco could move, but he wasn't quick enough. He felt a hand run up his side, digging into his hip while Marco propped himself a few inches from his face with the other.

"Earlier - you said you think I'm not human," he whispered, and even in the darkness Jean could feel him staring. Marco pressed their cheeks together, his breath ghosting across Jean's ear. "So then what exactly do you think I am?"

The weight of his stare made the prickly heat behind Jean's cheeks spread across his whole face, blooming down his neck and chest as he struggled to keep his breathing even under it. "I don't know. An angel. Or a demon, or something... _magic_."

Marco laughed quietly. "Those things are pretty different, Jean."

"Yeah, well they're both fucking weird, so--"

"So you think I'm weird?"

"Well kinda," Jean admitted. There was a pause long enough for him to consider how many other ways he could've answered, and to wonder just how much he'd pissed Marco off before he finally heard him speak again.

"And you still want me?" His voice wasn't the confident, self assured one that Jean was so used to from the storyteller; he sounded more like a cautious teenager. His hand dropped from Jean's side and he pushed back to look down at him, like he was searching for permission. Jean stared at him for a moment, then looped an arm around his neck to pull him back down.

"Yes," he murmured, pressing their foreheads together and raking his free hand down Marco's chest. "I like you anyway, Marco. God, _look_ at you - how could I not?" He craned his head up to trail kisses along the line of Marco's jaw, his ear, his neck, finding traces of nearly forgotten sugar. Marco groaned quietly beneath his lips.

"Mhmm. Are you sure you don't like me _because_ I'm weird?" he teased, his smooth, unfaltering tone returning as his voice dropped lower. He slid his hand back up to Jean's hip, dragging it tauntingly across the growing bulge just beside his zipper. "Seems to me like it kind of turns you on." Jean hissed at the contact, tucking his own fingers under Marco's belt and pulling, as if to urge him on. Marco stopped and pulled back to look at him again, a smirk tugging his features to one side as he waited for a response. _"Jean?"_

"Yes! _Fuck -_ _yes_ , ok? Yes. I like it." Jean stammered, pushing his hips forward wantonly. "I can't get you out of my fucking head and I really, really like it."

Marco gave a raspy laugh and hooked his fingers into Jean's belt loops. "I think about you a lot too, Jean. All the time."

"When you're at work?" Jean whispered, sliding their hips together roughly. He unbuttoned his shirt, never looking down from Marco's stare as his hands moved. "When you're _alone?"_

_"Constantly,"_ Marco said breathlessly, and Jean felt powerful, getting under his skin so obviously. Marco helped him with the last few buttons, unhooked his belt and slid it from its loops with one quick jerk. "Wanna give you everything you need, Jean. Everything you want. So-" He stepped away, leaving Jean standing at the door,  unconsciously leaning after him, and pulled open a small dresser drawer. "- tell me what else you like."

It was hard to make out exactly what he was seeing in the near total darkness of the room, but when Marco flipped on a small lamp atop the dresser, Jean noticed the edges of what might have been belts and a chain of some kind peeking out of the drawer. He swallowed nervously as Marco plucked a bottle of lubrication and a box of condoms from the drawer and tossed them haphazardly toward his bed.

"I, uh... I'm probably not as exciting as I made myself sound earlier," Jean confessed quickly, unnerved by how apparently _experienced_ Marco was with things he'd never even tried. Part of him was surprised, but he'd long since lost the ability to be _shocked_ by anything he learned about his boyfriend. "From the looks of it I'm not as... adventurous as you are."

Marco seemed acutely aware of his anxiety, if not a little amused by it. "You don't have to be adventurous to be exciting to me, Jean," he promised. "Besides, you'd be surprised how much of this has never seen any action." Laughing softly, he pulled Jean to him. He slumped against the drawer to close it, tugging Jean after him so that they were both leaning onto the dresser, Jean's back to his chest. He pressed a kiss to Jean's neck and let his lips linger there, whispering comforting words against his skin. "We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with, alright? Like I said, just tell me what you like."

"I... kinda like... being tied up." It didn't sound half as assured and sexy as he'd hoped, but as soon as the words left Jean's mouth he heard Marco's breath hitch excitedly, and it was enough to keep him talking, stammering. "Just like... my hands, though. Wouldn't mind trying more than that, if you want to. Sometime. And I like getting blindfolded sometimes. And, uh - I usually top, but I... like it both ways, so..."

"Mmm." Marco hummed against his neck and pulled Jean's shirt from his shoulders, wrapping his arms around him as he ground his hips forward. "Anything else you're into?"

Jean let his head roll back onto Marco's shoulder and groaned, feeling considerably less anxious. "Just your fucking voice, _god_ , Marco." He pressed as much of himself back against Marco as he could manage, and was rewarded with a hungry kiss and another maddening roll of Marco's hips against his ass.

"Good to know. So... can I show you a good time?"

"You already have," Jean said honestly, more than a little embarrassed by how _dreamy_ his own voice sounded in the silence of the dark room. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't wanna see more, though."

Marco nodded and walked them toward his bed, turning Jean around to kiss him once before letting him fall back onto the comforter. He crawled over him - onto him - and Jean leaned up pull him down by his shoulders, biting down and sucking hard at the skin there as he tore away Marco's shirt. When Marco pushed up onto his knees to shrug the shirt the rest of the way off, he grinned down at Jean and his eyes flashed with the faintest hint of red as the dark, bruising mark Jean had left on his shoulder just... _disappeared_.

"Anything you want," he repeated, letting Jean pull him down again. "Anything you like."

" _You,_ " Jean said quickly. He reached down to unbutton his pants, sighing as his erection sprang from its tight confines, tenting his boxers. Marco stopped for a moment to palm at him - thumb swirling over the damp spot already appearing on the fabric - before undoing his own zipper and rolling off of Jean to toss his pants to the floor.

As he pulled them off, Jean stroked himself through his shorts, gnawing at his lip to keep himself from making the desperate sounds that were already threatening to bubble out of him. He let his eyes trail over Marco's increasingly exposed body, and then down to the things Marco had tossed onto the bed before they'd started. The box of condoms and bottle of lube looked almost unused, and something about that - the thought that Jean was the only one who'd gotten attention like this from Marco in a while - made his heart hammer even harder in his chest. It nearly burst from behind his ribs when Marco grabbed a tie that was hanging from his bed post, knotting it loosely before holding it up to show Jean what his intentions were. Jean nodded and crossed his hands behind his back, letting Marco crawl into his lap to slide the tie over his wrists and tighten it, which he did in one quick motion without so much as glancing down at his hands. As he rolled his shoulders to test the give of his binds, Jean briefly wondered where he'd learned to do that.

There wasn't much time to think about it, though; before he could even move to wiggle out of his boxers himself, Marco had tugged them off for him, and was stroking him so perfectly that Jean couldn't hold back a line of whimpering curses. It wasn't any easier to keep his composure when Marco bent down without warning, wrapped his lips around him and did something absolutely _incredible_ with his tongue.

"Hahh, shit, Marco!" Jean bucked his hips up unconsciously. "Sorry, I - _fuck, ah_ \- I just wasn't expecting--" The sight of Marco looking back at him robbed him of his voice. Marco's impossibly sweet, soft brown eyes - blown wide with lust - cut a shocking contrast to his lips, wine-stained and swollen from kissing, stretched around Jean. His head bobbed in a slow, deliberate pattern that had Jean biting his lip and wishing he had a spare hand to hold back the whines slipping out with each swirl of Marco's tongue. He pulled off with a wet pop and Jean nearly rolled off the bed, lurching his hips up after him.

"Don't want you to hold back," Marco breathed against the sensitive skin of his thigh. He trailed a searing line of open mouthed kisses back to Jean's already slick cock, and Jean struggled to keep his eyes from crossing or slamming shut at the needy, ragged sound of his voice. "We'll save the blindfold for another time - wanna _see_ you sweat for me. Wanna hear what you sound like, wanna remember it."

He dropped his head back down, taking Jean in his mouth again and humming when Jean jerked upwards. His hips pinned under Marco's firm grip and his arms secured beneath him, Jean could only move as much as he was allowed, making up for the lack of his own motion by loudly enjoying Marco's, the words _'another time'_ darkening his senses with a rush of blinding excitement.

"You're so damned gorgeous," he gritted out, frustrated by the fact that he couldn't push his fingers into the dark hair threatening to hide Marco's face from view. Being so entirely in Marco's hands should have been uncomfortable, so early in their relationship, but even bound and spread out beneath him on the unfamiliar bed, Jean felt nothing but safe with Marco. He let his head fall back as Marco's nose brushed through swirls of coarse hair. "- don't stop, _don't fucking stop,_ please -"

Just as Jean was on the edge of another pleading moan, the delicious, wet heat of Marco's mouth disappeared. He whined as he pushed up on his elbows to protest, but Marco was crawling over him again, pushing him down as he laid his body across Jean's. His voice was low and his breath hot across Jean's ear as he leaned over him to whisper.

"I want you. I wanna -- can I ride you?"

Jean pulled his head back with a start to look for the seriousness in his face, and moaned helplessly when Marco's eyes fell on him - hungry, piercing and undeniably _red._ He nodded fiercely before choking out an answer.

"Fuck - _Marco_ \- yes, _please_."

Marco leaned in for another kiss - urgent and possessive - and dragged his mouth down Jean's neck, his chest, his stomach, taunting him as he reached across the bed to retrieve the bottle of lube that Jean had nearly forgotten about. It wasn't until he heard the cap pop open that Jean was shaken from the bliss of Marco's lips on his skin, and realized that he wasn't in much of a position to be of any assistance. He tugged at the fabric binding his hands and wriggled his shoulders, looking down at Marco with uncertainty.

"I can't - I'm still - I can't help you get ready if I'm--"

Marco put a hand on his thigh, cutting him off midsentence to trace reassuring circles that were at once comforting and insanely arousing.

"I can handle it. Let me," he said, his eyes returning to their normal shade of deep brown. It was another one of those things that Jean probably would have questioned, if he weren't so bent on satisfying his blistering _need_ for Marco. Instead he nodded again, intent on letting his boyfriend do whatever would ultimately quell that fire.

"As long as you let me watch."

Marco squeezed his thigh once, then tipped the bottle of oil over two of his fingers, drizzling it generously down to his knuckles. Jean licked his lips, unable to do much else as he watched Marco prop himself up on bended knees and reach down to circle at his own entrance. There was a sharp inhale, and Jean couldn't be sure which one of them had done it, but he knew his own shaky groan when he heard it. Marco smirked wickedly and pushed his fingers into himself, rolling his hips in circles as he twirled his fingers to match.

" _Marco_..." Jean stared at him, watching in agonizing awe as Marco worked himself open, sighing between thrusts of his fingers and staring shamelessly back at Jean. The blush on his cheeks seemed lit from behind his skin, glowing like his face often did when he was performing in front of people, and it dawned on Jean that he was doing exactly that. This was a private show, but a show nonetheless, and every minute of it was for Jean, alone. His hips rocked desperately of their own accord as he watched Marco perform for him, _prepare_ for him. It was too damn much. "You look so fucking amazing right now Marco, I _can't_ \--"

Thankfully, Marco didn't seem keen on making him beg for what he wanted. He withdrew his fingers one last time, and threw his leg over Jean to level their hips as he pulled a condom from the box. He ripped it open and paused for a moment to wait for Jean's hasty nod before slowly rolling it down over his near painful hardness. Jean gave an unhinged, guttural moan at the feeling of Marco's still-slick fingers working the condom onto him, and nearly pulled his arms from their sockets arching up into his touch as Marco poured more oil over him afterward. By the time Marco lined them up, Jean was barely able to keep himself from shaking apart under his touch. After a moment of stillness, Marco began to sink down over him - onto him - and Jean's control slipped from him as they created a chorus of blissful curses and moans.

"Ohh, yes, _yesyesyes_ , god--"  
" _Jeannn_..."  
"Marco, it's - so fucking _perfect_ \- shit--"  
"You're so thick, so... so good, Jean..."

Marco took the full of him in one achingly slow movement, humming so deep in his chest that Jean could feel it in the tense tightness that gripped him. He snapped his hips up almost immediately, but reigned himself in when he heard a strained hiss from Marco. "Sorry, sorry. It's just... been a little while."

"It's ok," Marco smiled sweetly, as if he wasn't at that moment the most gorgeously lewd sight Jean had ever seen. "Let me handle it though, ok? I'll take care of you." He ran his fingers along the trail of dusty blonde hair on Jean's chest and stomach, and Jean tried to ignore the way it made his dick throb against Marco's tight heat.

"Please do," he breathed, and Marco didn't waste any more of their time.

He pushed himself up, inching back until he'd almost pulled himself off of Jean entirely, and then sank down with a little swivel that made Jean's head spin. He arched his back, trying not to move in time with Marco until he was told otherwise. Marco continued his slow ride, curses falling from his slick, parted lips.

" - _nnggod,_ you feel so good, Marco, _so fucking good_ -" Jean whimpered, unable to keep still any longer. He rocked up into Marco, a breathy whine escaping him with every shallow thrust. Marco met him move for move, letting him bottom out each time and quickening their pace until they were pounding against each other. His strong thighs flexed with each thrust, and Jean found himself dying to touch them, to run his hands over every tensed muscle. The perfect arch of Marco's back every time he lifted himself made it all the harder for Jean to control the erratic jerking of his hips. Marco looked so good, was so fucking _amazing_ at what he was doing and Jean was caught between wanting to know how and just wanting to be sure he was the only one who would ever see Marco this way for the rest of forever.

Once they'd found some semblance of rhythm, Marco let Jean take full control for a moment, peppering him with whispered pleas for _'more, Jean - yes, there'_ as he slipped an arm under his back. He pulled Jean upright, wrapped his legs around him and ground himself down into his lap again. His arms still tied behind him, Jean hissed at the changed angle, the insane tightness as Marco continued to slam down onto him, his dick beginning to slick with precome as it slid against Jean's taut stomach.

Marco's frenzied movements stuttered to a halt when Jean hit against his prostate, shocking them both at the way his body tensed and shook at the feeling. He dropped himself onto Jean at the same angle again and again, a strangled moan escaping each time his hips collided with Jean's.

Watching Marco writhing with pleasure in his lap made Jean's mouth water, desperate to touch some part of him. He bit down hard on Marco's clavicle, grabbing his attention the only way he could.

"I've gotta - damn it, Marco untie me, I gotta fucking touch you, please!"

Marco reached behind Jean and hooked a finger into the knotted fabric, popping it loose and freeing Jean's hands. Those hands flew straight to Marco's skin; one sliding kneading fingers over his ass while the other wrapped around his swollen cock. Jean stroked him in time with their combined movements until they became too sloppy, too erratic. Marco thrust into his hand messily as his bouncing in Jean's lap became more frantic, and he looked so fucking _beautiful_ doing it that Jean was almost too caught up in the moment to realize when his breathy moans stuttered from his release.

"Jean! J-Jean, _'mbout to come, sweetheart I'm_ \--"

"Do it Marco, please--" Jean breathed. " _All-fucking-over_ _me."_

Marco came hard and hot across Jean's chest, and tried to bite back an insanely wide grin as he panted through his orgasm. The way he looked - grinding into Jean's lap for that last jolt of pleasure - and the way he clenched around Jean's dick in tight, unrelenting waves was more than Jean could handle; he rutted up into him a few more times, buried as deeply as possible as he came with a choked moan of Marco's name.

Jean fell back onto the bed with a thump, pulling Marco down with him to kiss as the last waves of euphoria lapped at their bodies. Marco was grinning unabashedly between lazy kisses, and before long they had to stop, unable to do anything more than stare at each other with tired eyes and ridiculous smiles.

Marco pulled their bodies apart carefully and sat up to reach into the floor, fumbling around in the low light until he found a box of tissues, bringing one up to Jean's stomach to clean him off. "Sorry I uh, made such a mess. It's been a little while for me, too." He tossed the tissue and condom at a waste basket and looked back down at Jean apologetically.

Jean shrugged and grabbed Marco's hand, holding it against his chest and his still pounding heart. "Doesn't bother me. Actually I... kinda liked it." He kissed Marco's fingers and let his hand go, grinning up at him sheepishly. "It's also nice to know I'm not the only guy in this town that never gets laid."

Marco raised an eyebrow and looked down at their naked bodies. "I hesitate to use the word 'never', considering..."

"Ok, smartass," Jean quipped, pulling Marco down to lie beside him. Marco smiled back at him and Jean felt caught up in him all over again, words like 'love' swirling through his head as he raked sweat dampened hair off of his boyfriend's face.

"So; _strange_ enough for you, sir?" Marco teased, scooting forward until he was flush against him, their noses touching as he pressed his forehead to Jean's.

Jean scoffed dramatically. "Hardly. I was expecting a lot weirder out of you." He winked, and the way Marco grinned at him made his chest feel too small for his heart.

"Hm. Well maybe next time," Marco laughed. "There's a lot to choose from in that drawer."

Jean had no idea how serious he was, but it didn't really matter. He was burning alive in the fire that had started in his chest at the promise of 'next time'. He still didn't understand how the hell Marco affected him _that much_ , that he was happy to go up in flames from the inside out. But knowing that Marco was planning on sticking around was all he needed in that moment.

"I don't think you'll ever stop surprising me, Marco Bodt. But maybe that's why I..." He trailed off, content to let the weight of his arms around Marco's neck say what he didn't.

He fell asleep draped across Marco's chest that night, happy to just breathe in the feeling of being beside him, and even happier to wake up next to him when morning gently roused them.

\--

As the weeks went on and October slipped by, Jean continued to go to the park, never missing a Friday or Saturday night there. The stories were as good as always, and the crowd as excited as ever. The difference wasn't in Marco's performance, but the fact that no matter how caught up in his storytelling he seemed, Jean always knew that he had Marco's attention, especially at the end of the evening. When everyone else had gone, Marco was completely, entirely _Jean's._

The dreams and visions didn't stop, but they became steamy, heated versions of what they'd always been, usually involving Jean and the freckled soldier boy in various states of undress, with the added thrill of sneaking around familiar-looking barracks and shower rooms to hide their lustful handling of each other. So lucid they became that Jean had begun waking from them with an almost delirious need to call Marco, to hear his voice and remember that he was more than just a dream. Marco always answered him, no matter the hour, and the flirtatious, teasing texts he would send Jean throughout the day afterward made him infinitely glad that Marco was real, and _his_.

Marco was true to his word; they did dig through his dresser drawer a few more times. One night in particular, Jean took it upon himself to fill his sketchbook with images of Marco wrapped in nothing but the blankets of his bed, enticed by the process of _studying_ his subject before drawing him. Twenty minutes of staring at Marco's beautiful body passed without a single press of his pencil to the page, and Jean ultimately ended up blindfolded and naked himself, no longer teased by the sight of Marco, but very much by the _feel_ of him. He made a note to himself to try his art project again. Another time. Soon.

It seemed to go that way most nights that they were together, forgoing the deep discussions of nagging questions in favor of letting frisky hands roam over sweat shined skin. The elevator of his apartment complex, the small, the cramped shower in Marco's home - even the back seat of his car in the parking lot of the park, one night when they found themselves alone there - they devoured each other everywhere they could find room to. Jean lost himself in a feeling of need stronger than he'd felt in his entire life, like a sex starved teenager unable to think of anything other than _Marco._

The weather continued to cool even as things between the two of them heated up. Thoughts of fall holidays and family meals started to play at Jean's mind, even as he lay tangled in Marco's sheets or stretched across his couch; when he threaded their fingers together he couldn't help but think of holding his hand at the table of a Thanksgiving dinner or walking around the path surrounding Lake Sina, which Marco had promised would soon be strewn with Christmas lights. Those were the kinds of things he'd always made fun of guys like Connie for liking - guys who were tied down and tamed out of the adventurous spirit he liked to think he had. But Marco brought out both sides of him, and he found it harder and harder to harass his partnered coworkers and friends for enjoying their stability. Still, thoughts of even the _near_ future prodded at that part of Jean that remembered that he still knew so little about his boyfriend, and most of what he did know for sure involved how distracting Marco's hands and mouth were on weekend nights when he would entertain the idea of trying to learn more.

By the time Marco's next free weekend arrived, Jean had all but given up on discovering anything other than new places in Maria to explore with Marco, and ways for them to explore each other. The question on Jean's mind became less about who or what Marco was, and more about _where_ he was; Jean reasoned that he could ultimately deal with Marco being just about anything other than too far away. He spent as much time in Sina as possible, only lingering in his own home when Marco was there as well.

It wasn't that he didn't know that he would have to approach the topic of Marco's peculiarity at some point. Every time he traced fingers over Marco's glowing skin or caught a glimpse of red in his eyes, a quiet voice in the back of his mind reminded him that he needed to know exactly what he'd gotten himself into. But the feeling of absolute completion he had when his head was on Marco's shoulder was enough to stave it off, and he was happy to borrow whatever time he could from a future he did his best not to over think.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I know I said this was going to be a seven part story, but there IS one more chapter (and an epilogue!) coming after this one. Be looking for those in about two days, because I want to get this story all neatly wrapped up before I post my next big project. :)
> 
> THAT SAID, I hope you guys enjoy the direction I decided to go with the rest of the story, because it's been a lot of fun for me to work on.
> 
> Thanks as always to the lovely Deb for her ideas, as well as a wonderful beta job on this. You're a peach! :)
> 
> As always, comments & kudos are MUCH appreciated, but more than anything I just really hope you like it!
> 
> \--

\--

_They're sitting in a drab mess hall together, other people - faces Jean is distantly aware of recognizing - mulling around and talking about their plans for the future. Jean wants to talk, too. He brings up the topic with the freckled boy beside him, about where he sees himself, what he sees himself as. The Marco look alike smiles that familiar smile and gives him a cheerful answer that falls strangely on his ears. Something in his dream-clouded mind recognizes avoidance in his tone._

_"Don't gimme that" he groans, prodding the soldier for the truth about himself. He can't really be as perfect as he seems, Jean's brain insists. But he won't budge from his answer, and the scene melts around him before he can push any more._

\--

The chill that had begun to settle in Jean's chest every time he woke from a dream about Marco had nothing to do with the cool November air nipping at his skin when they weren't huddled together somewhere. It wasn't that he wasn't _happy_ with him; he had quite the opposite problem. When he was with Marco, he was dizzy, distracted, drunk on the way his boyfriend made him feel. The sex - right from the start - was insanely frequent; it was intense, intimate and intoxicating like everything else about Marco. Jean was over the fucking _moon,_ so much so that it occasionally pissed him off. He couldn't reconcile the fact that he knew next to nothing about Marco, and that _he_ seemed to be the _only_ one who saw a problem with that.

Jean was admittedly less than entirely at himself where Marco was concerned, but he was smart enough to know when he was being lied to. He wasn't sure that Marco had ever deceived him outright, but the layers of mystery and omission were more than enough to set him on edge. Stepping around the truth was like a game that Marco always won at, and no matter how much he thought he might be in _love_ with the guy, Jean really hated losing.

The volley between soaring in Marco's presence and sinking into his own insecurities when he was alone was disorienting, and when Marco texted him early one Saturday to say he needed some rest after a rough night, Jean saw his opportunity to get some air, alone, and sort out exactly how he felt about the way things were between the two of them. He felt a little guilty, getting out while Marco laid at home feeling sick. But Marco himself assured him that he didn't mind some time alone, and Jean hoped that maybe - somewhere in the winding streets of Maria - he'd figure out what he should do about the strange turns his life had taken.

After the weekend morning rush of early holiday shoppers bustling through the downtown streets had dissipated, Jean tugged on a jacket and jammed hands into his pockets to head out into the slight chill to find something to ease his mind. It didn't help that a long forgotten scrap of paper fell from one of the pockets, a receipt from his first trip to Cafe du Monde, with beignets and two drinks on the tab. Marco's voice swirled in his mind; _'You've got to let me take you there, Jean - you can't live in Maria without trying it at least once.'_ Perfect memories like that one were one of the things that kept him from looking for the answers he needed about Marco. He tucked the paper back in his pocket and tried to keep his mind vacant as he pulled out of the parking garage.

The streets of Maria were like a maze, a puzzle that you couldn't figure out even if you spent your life there. In the weeks prior, he'd explored much of the city with Marco, but the sight of some of the places where'd they'd been - where they'd _been together_ \- however much they pulled warmly at his chest, were not what he needed that day. He decided to park close to the quarter, the area sure to be full of cheerful tourists and well-oiled locals, the kind of crowd he thought it best to wrap himself in. With dozens of voices ringing in his ears, it would be easier to think about something other than the one that constantly occupied his mind.

As he'd predicted, the square was buzzing like a thing alive with energy, and he had to park blocks away. It didn't bother him the way it usually would've. He told himself it was the holiday spirit, lifting his. Really, he reveled in the ability to slip through the crowds on foot, part of the commotion without the chaos. He walked most of the way into the main square with his eyes on the sidewalk beneath him, nodding politely whenever he passed someone a little too closely. It wasn't until he found himself on an entirely strange, unfamiliar street that he bothered to lift his face.

Many of the shops along the short street were dark, some with windows broken or boarded doors. The walls of a few of them still bore the damage of the hurricane that had devastated the area years earlier, a testament to how long they'd been in disuse. Jean was about to turn around and head back onto the main road when he caught sight of a tiny building that seemed completely unaffected by the disarray of the others. Intrigued, he walked up to the clean, clear window of the dark painted shop.

There was an interesting selection of merchandise in the window, books and decor, objects that would've been at home in a cheesy haunted house. Jean laughed under his breath; in this city, the natives and tourists alike seemed keen to revere - if not believe - in the practices and traditions of Voodoo. He'd never understood the fascination, but he'd learned shortly after moving to the city that even those who weren't part of that scene let it have its place within the local culture. This shop was like many others, scattered around the edges of tourist hot spots to supply enthusiasts with all the fodder they needed. He shook his head and backed away from the window, prepared to head back, until something in the corner of the glass caught his attention. A book, with a dark, mysterious looking man on the cover - with glowing red eyes.

_'Le Raconteur',_ the title on the book's jacket read. Jean blinked, hesitated on a thought for a moment, and then headed inside the little shop.

The store itself was dark, the only lighting coming from the picture window filled with merchandise. The velvet-lined display shelves were a deep violet color, topped with gold wire racks that held books and trinkets. He scanned the lot with anxious eyes, inhaling sharply when he found the book he'd seen from outside the window. He snatched it from its rack and flipped it open, realizing as soon as he did that it was an antique; dust flew from its yellowed pages and he blew on the pages he'd turned to to get a better look at the text.

'Those bearing this curse are often beautiful to look upon, enchanting to be in the presence of. Gifted with irresistible voices, glowing skin and piercing eyes - sometimes said to gleam red when they're at work in the lives of the souls they attend to - their breathtaking appearance is one of the charms these storytellers use to draw people together.'

_Damn, if that wasn't Marco to the letter._

"Ah, Le Raconteur - the cursed storyteller of Voodoo tradition!" A tall, elderly man with a disproportionately loud voice suddenly loomed behind him, close enough to peer over Jean's shoulder. His accent was heavy with the drawl of a lifetime local; he grinned theatrically, a flash of gold revealed at either side of his wide mouth. "Fascinating, wouldn't you say, boy?"

Jean snapped the book closed, holding his place with two fingers as he stepped away from the stranger. "Uh, yeah. Look, sorry - I'm just browsing. I don't need any help or anyth--"

"Oh, but you look like you do!" The man interjected. "Why else would you have picked up this book?" He invaded Jean's space again, reaching around him to thump at the cover of the book in his hands.

"Just looked interesting," Jean said dismissively. He hoped the man would leave him to his browsing - to do more reading - but when he didn't seem to be keen on leaving, Jean decided to do so himself. He dropped the book back onto the rack and shuffled past the man toward the door. "But I've gotta be on my way, so--"

"Oh, it's mighty _interesting_. The Raconteur is a cursed soul you see, forced to reassemble their former life into a new projection in this one." He continued as if Jean had inquired about the topic - or actually cared at all - speaking with all the dramatic flourish of any tourist trap purveyor. Jean heaved a sigh and nodded, trying to remain as cordial as he could feign.

"Right. Sounds great. Look, I really don't--"

The man raised a hand to silence him, and ignored Jean's indignant scowl. "The curse can only be broken when their task is complete. Otherwise..." He trailed off, a devilish smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth and giving a better show of the gold teeth there. With a shrug and a long sigh that sounded far too final, he turned and began walking toward the shadows of the back of the store again. Jean huffed after him.

_"Otherwise?"_ He gritted it out, knowing he was stepping right into the guy's trap. He wasn't sure what he hated more - playing games with a crackpot or the fact that for some reason, he actually kind of wanted to hear more. He'd been baited and he knew it. "Otherwise what?"

The man glanced over his shoulder and began to chuckle, low in his throat and slower than Jean could tolerate. "I don't want to keep you, boy. You'd best be off to--"

"Tell me what you were going to say!" Jean shouted, too annoyed to restrain himself. "You can't just do that shit to people, it's irritating. Spit it out." Fists clenched, he stood as tall as his frame would allow, still looking up at the other man. He returned Jean's stare with a lazy shrug, still only half turned to face him.

"There ain't much more to tell. If the Raconteur can't complete their task in a single lifetime, they are doomed to repeat it. Along with every soul dragged to this earth along with 'em."

"Sounds like a whole lot of bullshit to me," Jean scoffed. "Dragged to earth. _Tch_. How's that fair to the _'other souls'?_ " He drew quotes in the air as he finished his sentence, adding emphasis to his taunting tone. The shop owner drew an eyebrow down and gave him a severe look, raising a hand to point back at him.

"I assure you, it ain't fair to the Raconteur either, boy. Their souls are more burdened than anybody's on this planet. They don't get to choose their path, and they gotta make everyone else's for 'em, too. None of us can imagine the weight they bare. But curses don't care - they play no favorites, and answer to nobody's justice."

Jean stared at him. He should've just been aggravated by the utter waste of his time, but something else was pricking painfully at the edge of his mind. Suddenly the air in the shop felt hot against his skin, and he needed out, fast. He loosened the collar of his jacket and cleared his throat.

"Ok. Look, thanks for the fascinating story, but I've really gotta go."

The shop owner clicked his tongue, shook his head and disappeared back into the dark of the rear of the store. Jean entertained the idea of yelling after him, to ask where the hell he came up with the things he'd rattled about, but that might have meant accepting the fact that the guy's nonsense had hit a little too close to home for him. He turned back to look at the window full of merchandise.

The book was still sitting on the display rack. He considered picking it up again, thumbing through it for any answers the shopkeeper hadn't given him. Instead he let his uneasiness carry him out of the store without another word, and halfway down the street before he stopped to glance back at the little store once more. When he looked back, the well painted walls and shined windows appeared to have aged half a century, chipped and cracked in ways they hadn't been before he'd gone inside. The sign above the door was broken, and the door itself looked boarded over. He swallowed hard and backed away as he stared, finally turning to break into a run, back to the busy streets and back to a world that made less sense with every day that passed.

**I think I changed my mind about company - can you drop by while you're out today?**

He answered the text as soon as he read it, without letting himself think. Apparently, thinking didn't help. He needed answers, but clearly he wasn't finding them in his own head - or in the back streets of Maria. He was halfway to Marco's apartment by the time his text tone told him his response had sent.

**Yeah, I'll be there in a few.**

\--

The strange experience in the shop tucked as far back in his mind as he could manage, Jean tried to go on with life - particularly his time with Marco - as usual. It was easy when they were together to forget his anxieties, wrapped instead in Marco's voice and arms. Still, the uncertainty he felt bubbled in his stomach almost constantly, and when it spilled out of him one late November afternoon, he took the chance to prod for answers and ease his mind.

"I've been thinking..."

Arms looped lazily around Marco's neck, shirt unbuttoned and hanging from his shoulders, Jean sat straddling his boyfriend's hips on the couch in Marco's living room. The careful approach of his tone piqued Marco's interest - and seemed to amuse him - as they pulled apart from what might have been a hour or more of slow, sweet kisses and roaming hands.

"What about, love?" Marco asked, turning them both so that he was sitting up straight on the couch, Jean still in his lap. Jean twisted his mouth thoughtfully before answering.

"Thanksgiving is coming up."

Marco nodded and raised an eyebrow. "I doubt that's all that's on your mind."

"Well, my family are all hours away, and I really don't know if a cross country trip is something I wanna deal with just for a _meal_ , especially this time of year."

"That's sensible," Marco conceded. He reached up to rake fingers through Jean's hair, grinning up at him adoringly. "And I'm done with my weekends at the park until spring. Did you have something else in mind?"

Jean shrugged, trying to make a very loaded response sound more casual. "Well... Are you doing anything with _your_ family?"

Marco's beaming smile immediately cracked; he shifted uncomfortably beneath Jean's weight and shook his head quickly. "No, I never really do. I don't really have much of a family to speak of, so--"

Jean cut him off with a kiss - a messy smash of their lips and a mumbled shushing sound. "Everyone has a family. And I - we never talk about yours, so tell me about it. You don't have to _introduce_ me if you don't want to." Marco was still stone faced, looking back at him stiffly.

"Jean, I'm serious, I really don't--"

"I'm serious too. If you don't want to associate with your family, I understand. But I just wanna know your story, mister _storyteller_. So tell me." He curled his fingers under the open collar of Marco's shirt, tugging at the cloth to pull their faces together again, trying to sound persuasive. Marco brought his own hands up to wrap over Jean's, stilling them and grabbing Jean's attention.

"I _am_ telling you. I don't have a family, and I never really have." There was a sadness in his expression that made it almost believable, but something in his tone sounded like he was performing, telling a story for an audience. It unsettled Jean to notice that in such a private moment.

"Stop saying that, Marco. Stop--" He swung his legs over to one side of Marco's, letting his feet fall to the floor as if he would leave. Maybe he wanted Marco to believe he might, though they both knew better. "Stop lying to me."

"I'm not lying, Jean." He straightened himself up, sat so that his rigid back pushed deep into the cushions of the couch as he pushed back against Jean's accusation.

Jean stood from his lap, pulling his shirt closed a little self consciously. "Stop _hiding_ things, then. That's all you ever do."

"I just don't think now is a good time to talk about this."

"Then when? We never talk about you, it's always about me. I can't keep going like this - for God's sake, you're my _boyfriend_ and I know next to nothing about you. This is the _least_ you could give me." He stepped back and turned away, pacing as he convinced himself that this conversation was necessary, and that he really couldn't let it slide again this time. He turned back and saw Marco worrying his lip, and couldn't keep his insistent facade up for long. He knelt in front of him, hands coming to rest on Marco's knees as his voice became more pleading than pushy.

"You know everything about me, Marco. You've laid me open like a book - and now I need a little more of you that way. Whatever your story is, you can tell me." He smiled, hoping Marco would too and that for once they might have a productive conversation, like normal human beings. "I've always known there was something _different_ about you, remember? And whatever that is, it's okay."

Marco didn't smile. He ran a hand tenderly over the back of Jean's for a moment as he thought about his response, but withdrew it as he shook his head decidedly. "I don't think you'll feel that way if I actually tell you."

Jean pushed up off Marco's knees and stumbled backward, catching himself and poking a few of his shirt buttons back into their holes as he stood. "Well, I'm sick of not knowing anything about you. I'd say talk or I'll walk, but we both know I'm a stubborn shit and I'm not going anywhere. So your options are basically talk or talk."

Marco sighed and glanced over his shoulder, out the room's large picture window at the fading light of the autumn evening. "I'm more worried about you walking if I _do_ talk to you." His words softened Jean - though he refused to show just how affected he was by them - and hung heavy between them like a warning not to go any further down the path of conversation. Jean ignored it.

"Marco, seriously. _C'mon."_ He sat back down, beside Marco this time rather than on top of him, folding his legs beneath him and looking back at Marco expectantly.

A long silence passed as Marco sat thinking, collecting his thoughts like he was about to narrate a detailed story. Jean hoped he might do just that.

"There's... kind of a lot to tell." Marco spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "My mother died in childbirth, so I never knew her. I was the product of an affair, so I had no father to speak of, either. Whoever he was, he wasn't about to lay claim to a baby and ruin his marriage. So I was orphaned. That's why I say I don't have a family. Because I genuinely don't."

Jean's reassuring smile slipped; he draped an arm across Marco's leg and squeezed his knee apologetically. He was expecting _weird_ , not tragedy and scandal. Marco took a shaky breath and continued.

"I grew up in the old county orphanage, here in Maria. It's not there anymore, and it's no wonder - that place was barely passable by health and safety standards, even back then." His expression became distant, and Jean could see the memories playing across his eyes. Marco shook his head and went back to his narration with a small shrug.

"But that's where I lived for years. The other kids there were so troubled, so... dead inside; I always felt so horrible for them. It was such a depressing place. But I had dreams, that kept me sane because they kept me company. Dreams about a life where I was part of a group, like a family. I dreamt of being a soldier, surrounded by friends like brothers and sisters. And I told the other kids about my dreams, because I thought it would bring them the same feeling of hope that it brought me. But it never did. It would be a long time before my stories brought anyone any happiness."

"When I was a young teenager, I finally got adopted. My new family was huge; I was the seventh child they adopted, and there were more after me. I thought I was getting what I'd been dreaming of my whole life. But that turned out to be the problem." He paused, jaw clenched like he was shouldering pain with every word. "They were so cold and detached - _militant_ is the best word, I think - and there was no love there. Only a place to lay my head, and food in my stomach. When I got older and started trying to figure myself out, they were so resistant to it. They didn't want me to know anything about myself, or my parents or anything else. They told me I was wasting my time." His voice remained steady and practiced, but he couldn't hide the sadness there.

"I still had my dreams, though. I dreamt of finding out who I really was, and I told my adopted siblings about it. They didn't really care what I had to say, but at least they let me talk. It wasn't much to cling to, but it's what I had."

"Marco, why didn't you try to go somewhere else? Stay with a friend, something?" Jean asked. "I would've never stood for that shit. I'd have been on someone's couch so damned fast--"

"I didn't really _have_ friends, Jean," he said sullenly. "None that would've taken me in, anyway. Still, one day I did get sick of it and tried to run away. I happened past one of those shops in town that sold all kinds of Voodoo things - mostly for the tourists, you know? I'd never really been interested in that kind of thing, but I saw a cop walking toward me and decided to duck into the shop and have a look around, just in case he was looking for me. The shop owner saw me come in and insisted on doing the whole fortune telling bit, stones and bones and books and all. And what he told me... made a lot of sense."

Jean bristled at the mention of the shop. He wasn't even entirely convinced he hadn't dreamt up the disappearing Voodoo shop he'd stumbled into, and he wasn't willing to entertain thoughts of it being real enough to have had any part in Marco's life story. He shifted awkwardly and continued listening with what he hoped was an unfazed expression.

"He knew nothing about me, but somehow he told me about my birth mother. He told me that she'd been in love with a married man, and convinced herself that if she could bear his child, he would leave his wife for her. But she couldn't conceive. So she used a spell to have a child. And cursed herself and the baby in the process."

"You're cursed?" Jean asked, eyebrow raised and tone sharp with deliberate disbelief. Marco nodded, without a moment's hesitation. Jean sat back against the opposite arm of the couch, crossing his arms and wearing his most convincing patronizing smirk as he nodded along to a story that was making him increasingly uncomfortable to hear.

"She wasn't destined to have a child at all, so that spirit had to come from somewhere. He said that the spell 'snatched a soul out of the eternal spin of the afterlife', dragging it back to earth for a second life. That was me. And the fortune teller... he told me about my past life."

Jean laughed before he could help himself, a breathy, nervous laugh that Marco frowned when he heard. "Your past life. Right. So what were you, a celebrity? Royalty? The _once and future king_ , all that?"

"A soldier", he replied, matter-of-factly. "Just like in all of my dreams."

"When my mother brought me back to this life, she unlocked a curse that affected more than just my soul. It would pull to earth the souls of everyone who I'd been connected to in my past life - all the other soldiers in the 'family' from my dreams. And he told me I was burdened with the task of reassembling them all in one place during my lifetime. My mother's sin had cursed me, and everyone I would ever meet. And he told me that there was nothing I could do to change it."

Jean stared at him, trying not to convey his discomfort. Marco was shaking. Jean pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes, frustrated. He thought about the crackpot old man he'd run into days before - about how much he did _not_ want to believe anything out of the guy's half-toothless mouth - and groaned.

"And you believed him? You can't just - I mean, some whacked out old guy in a head shop? You bought into his bullshit?"

"Not at first," Marco muttered hesitantly. "I left the shop as soon as I could get away without upsetting him, and I didn't intend to go back. About a week later, after I'd given up and gone back home, I got curious. So I snuck out again to go back to the shop - and I couldn't find it. It just... _vanished_ , and I never saw the guy again. But the things he said stuck with me. Because the more I thought about them, the more they made sense."

_Vanished_.

He hadn't told Marco about his weird day ,walking the square, so how was his story so familiar? Jean pushed back the thought of the creepy little shop he'd seen - and then _not_ seen - and clutched desperately at his skepticism.

"Marco, that's, uh... honestly pretty ridiculous." He pulled at the fabric of Marco's pants leg absently, as if he was trying to pull Marco away from the whole idea, separate him from it. He'd been the one to push for a discussion, but he wasn't so sure he wanted it anymore.

Marco clasped his hands, then put them back in Jean's lap. "I understand why you think that. But you said that you knew there was something different about me, and that you wanted me to be honest about what it was. I'm trying to do that, so please just listen." He stroked his thumbs over the backs of Jean's hands and then released them, fidgeting with his own fingers nervously.

"Like I said, I ignored the man's words for as long as I could. But they haunted me, and so did my dreams. I dreamt about the strangest, most specific things, and they would repeat endlessly until I told someone about them. And then... they would stop. And come to life."

That hit another familiar chord with Jean, and he raised an eyebrow and leaned in toward Marco. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that every time I told stories about my dreams, they came to fruition. They became _real."_ Marco looked up at him, waiting for him to understand. Jean nodded slowly, though he disliked the direction the story was headed more and more with each new detail.

"So the stuff the guy in the shop told you..."

"Was true. At least it seemed that way. I had some kind of power to change things by narrating my dreams. And I realized that was the way I was supposed to bring the people from my past life back together in this one."

Jean eyed him anxiously. "Did you do it?"

"I tried not to," Marco said quietly. "I didn't want to change anyone else's life. I wasn't comfortable with that kind of power, so I tried to ignore the whole thing. But my dreams started to show me faces - people - and they plagued me. I dreamt of the violent deaths of friends that seemed familiar, even though I'd never met them. And the dreams got more and more horrifying the more I ignored them."

Jean swallowed; he'd been tormented by his own nightmares on far too many occasions. He understood exactly how draining that feeling was, even if nothing else Marco was saying made sense.

"I dealt with it for years, all through college and my first jobs. By the time I landed my teaching job, I had to find relief, just to be able to function. So I broke down and told stories to my students, my coworkers, anyone who would listen. And then Mina and Thomas showed up."

"Mina and Thomas?"

Marco nodded, sighed. "People who moved to Maria after I started my teaching job. They took jobs there the year after I did, teacher's assistant and athletic director. And they were people from my dreams, from my past life."

"You brought them here? You _made_ them come?" Jean stared at him in disbelief, an uneasy feeling gnawing viciously at his stomach. "You're saying that shit's for real?"

_The crazy old man. The vanishing Voodoo shop. The supposed curse._ Jean's mouth went cotton-dry and he looked back at Marco with widening eyes. Marco bit his lips together until they nearly disappeared into a tight, thin line. When he spoke again his voice was quieter.

"I realized that I couldn't fight it. I was finally able to sleep again, and they were such great people and seemed so happy here in town, I didn't feel as badly about it as I'd always told myself I would. I... kept going. I told my students more stories, which eventually led to the stories in the park. People were getting enjoyment out of them, so it felt good. And eventually, the people from my dreams - and my stories - started showing up to hear them."

"People from your past life?" Jean asked slowly.

Marco nodded. "People like you."

"Me?" Jean blinked, words taking their time forming as he tried to process what he was hearing. "So you... _forced_ me to come here?"

"I mean, I don't think I _forced_ anything on anyone, exactly. But I--"

"Did you intend to date me, then?" Jean interrupted, an angry flush rising to his cheeks. "The whole time? Did you bring me here for the sex or just to have someone around?" Marco stared at him, clearly unsure of how to answer. It only turned up the heat under his skin. "Answer me, Marco! Did you intend to bed me the whole damn time?"

"I... no? I mean - only if you _wanted_ to." Marco stammered, and if he wasn't so focused on the sudden feeling of betrayal clawing at his chest, Jean might've been proud of himself for robbing him of his unshakable confidence for once. "I didn't know you," Marco added quickly. "Not until you showed up. But that first night I saw you, I felt like I did. I remembered you from my dreams, and I remembered loving you. So yeah, you could say that I brought you here, but I never--"

"Did you force me to think I _loved_ you, too?" He hadn't meant to say it - especially the way it came out - but the acidic words brought him strange relief from the discomfort twisting his stomach at the thought of what they'd had being a lie. Once it was out, he let the end of the sentence turn his lips into a snarl and held it, fists clenching to keep his anger simmering, keep himself from feeling the bitter cold cracking that had started in his chest.

Marco shook his head, still soft spoken despite the mounting tension. "No, Jean. I didn't, I didn't even want to talk to you at first. Don't you remember? I avoided you - I never let you catch me alone, because I could see it on your face that you felt the same way I did. You felt that click too, and I was so scared of letting myself fall for you, because I knew I wouldn't be able to stop it once it started. And I was right; once I ran into you that night at the coffee shop, I was _gone_ , no matter how much I tried to run from it. But I told you, I never forced--"

"But if you hadn't played your little game with me, I would still be back up north, wouldn't I? I never would've moved to this town. You're saying you dragged me here? You changed my whole damned life, is that what you're telling me?"

"I was just doing what I had to, Jean." His eyes fell away, and Jean stomped his foot, kicked the couch to bring them back to him.

"No!" He screamed, then clapped his hand over his mouth to rein himself in, remembering that there were neighbors in Marco's complex. "That's bullshit, Marco. You could've - you should've just... _dealt_. You shouldn't have played with a bunch of people's lives, just to get some fucking sleep."

Marco's eyes snapped into a scowl, and he jumped to his feet. "It was never about getting sleep, Jean." He stepped forward but Jean didn't move, refusing to be affected. Marco reached for him, features softening. "I _have_ to do this - I'm _supposed_ to. It's not because I want to. Please, just let me t--"

Jean tore at his hair, hands shaking. "Stop fucking _talking_ right now! I swear to god - you don't fucking mention any of this weird-ass shit, and then just drop it all on me like--"

"I was just trying to shelter you!" Marco protested, his voice breaking. "I didn't think you were ready to know - I know it's a lot and it's strange - but you _asked!"_

"Because I was sick of you hiding from me. I had no fucking clue how much - I was right, though. You lied. You lied to me; you kept everything about this from me, and manipulated me and who knows how many other people, and... this isn't _real_." He motioned between them furiously. "I don't believe you!"

"After everything you've heard? All the weird things you admit that you've seen, even just since we've been together - all that and you still don't believe this is real?" His eyes flashed a deep shade of red, and it enraged Jean even more.

"I don't know about _that_ shit - it's not even _about_ that. What I do know is that I don't believe you. Anything you say. None of it."

Marco's voice was sad and small, shaking like his hands that he wrung compulsively under Jean's angry stare. "I knew you would do this. I told you. You weren't ready to hear this. You were never going to be."

"Oh, well once again, you know me better than I know myself, or you, or fucking _anybody_ for that matter. But you would, wouldn't you puppet master? God, who else have you jerked around? Were you just gonna keep doing that shit? Keep everything from me indefinitely, so you could keep me around? I fucking _trusted_ you, Marco. Even though I didn't understand you, I trusted you. Guess I know why, now. I gave you so fucking much of me, completely dropped my guard and - _God_ , I was so stupid!"

"Jean, please just--"

"No. I don't know how much of your bullshit I even believe, but no one controls my life except me. I was ready for you to be some weird, supernatural thing, but you're just a guy that manipulates people and fucking _lies_. I'm cutting the strings, Marco. Just - fuck off and find someone else to play your game with." The last few words felt too sharp, like blades tearing at his throat as he pushed through them. He stubbornly swallowed the burning there, and ignored the sting at the corners of his eyes.

Marco didn't argue any further. His voice sounded defeated, more withdrawn than Jean had ever heard it.

"You said that you lo--"

"I don't care what I said before." Jean spat. "It doesn't mean shit anymore. Right now, I'm saying goodbye."

He picked up his shoes, not even stopping to put them on before he walked out the door. All but running down the stairs, he forced himself not to look back, not to turn around. When he pulled into the parking garage of his complex he unbuckled his seatbelt, looked up at his flushed, tear stained reflection and punched the visor mirror hard enough that he was able to convince himself that he was crying - screaming himself hoarse - about the deep cuts in the back of his hand, and not the feeling that was ripping his chest apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--
> 
> I won't keep you waiting long this time - tune in Sunday night for the rest...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the tremendous response on the previous chapter! I hope you'll like this one even more!
> 
> Thanks as always to [Deb](http://lemonorangelime.tumblr.com/) for letting me bring this idea to life, and for the GORGEOUS illustration featured here. And thank you to everyone who's enjoyed this story so far with us - I hope you love the ending.
> 
> (Also, if you're interested in more, check out this [bonus (NSFW) LR chapter,](http://quartetship.tumblr.com/post/103134318324/the-morning-after-christmas-snk-jeanmarco) set just after this one ends!)
> 
> \--

It took several days for the pain in his healing hand to subside; Jean wondered if the ache in his chest would dull with it, but it only seemed sharper by comparison.

The nightmares that had always been a source of frustration for him became increasingly violent and disturbing since he'd last seen Marco's face. Actually, he was seeing Marco's face _constantly_ , but not all of it. In his dreams, Marco was often ripped apart, killed by unseen hands and found thrown against the wall of a burnt out building. The same scene repeated endlessly, night after night, and though the other faces changed each time, things always ended with Marco destroyed, dead and gone forever. Marco gone forever from his life. The underlying theme was far from lost on him when he would wake with a start to a face slicked with tears.

No matter how frightening the dreams became, or how many nights he wasted pacing or sweating until his sheets clung to his clammy skin, he would not call Marco. He pretended that he didn't even know the number; he'd deleted it the same day he'd stomped out of Marco's apartment. But when the visions shook him from his sleep, his fingers usually had it half dialed before he could stop them. Some nights he would listen to voicemails Marco had left him, just to remind himself that the real Marco wasn't the mangled body from his dreams. But that's as far as he would let it go. He never tapped the little green button, regardless of how badly he wanted to hear more of that voice.

The thought of drawing his horrible nightmares had occurred to him; sketching scenes just to keep them from haunting him in the daylight as much as they did at night. But when he put his pencil to paper, the things he drew always seemed to breathe, to become more tangible somehow. He was so terrified by the thought of fleshing out the demons that tore at his sanity that he refused to go near his sketch pads, even kicking them both under his bed to hide them from his sight. He would find some other way to cope; he wouldn't give in to the persistent urge to make that phone call.

He'd told Marco to _just deal_ \- those words were branded across his mind like so many other things he regretted saying - and he was determined not to be a hypocrite on top of everything else. So he wouldn't reach out. He would heed his own advice. He would just _deal_. The problem wasn't sweeping his pain under the rug to hide it from himself; he knew it was there, and he was fairly certain he could ignore it. The problem was convincing the people he worked with - the people he saw every day, for most of his waking hours - that he wasn't completely and totally wrecked.

It wasn't an easy task, and Jean had never been much of an actor. After half a week of volleying between nodding off in meetings and screaming at his coworkers for absolutely nothing, he wasn't at all surprised when Mikasa stopped by his office to talk privately with him. The only thing that did surprise him was that she came bearing a soft expression and a hot cup of coffee, rather than a written reprimand.

"You looked like you could use this" she said quietly, laying it on his desk and taking a seat when he waved his hand toward one of the chairs facing his desk. The last time she'd sat down with him that way, he'd been just as conflicted and incapable of hiding it. This time, he had the added stressor if wondering whether he would scream or cry later once he was alone. Mikasa could probably tell he was struggling to keep it together in front of her, though she kept a casual air in her voice as she spoke to him.

"You don't have to talk to me about it, but I wanted to tell you that we're all a little worried about you. If you need some time off or something else that I can do for you, just let me know."

Jean held his breath. She was such a kind woman, under her crisp, professional exterior, and - he noticed for perhaps the first time - really beautiful. The way her dark, shiny hair fell across her face reminded him of someone he was trying desperately not to think about, so instead he let himself entertain thoughts of taking her out, seeing her pretty face lit by something other than fluorescent lighting. Seeing her that way struck an odd chord of familiarity, though he _knew_ that he'd never thought of her romantically before. Maybe in his past life, the one Marco had told him about...

_No_.

He was just a lonely mess, she was just a pretty woman, and her presence just might be enough to numb the ache. That was all it was. The words slipped out before he could leash them.

"Thanks for the coffee. Again. You, uh - you look really nice today, by the way. Would you... like to go grab some coffee with me sometime? Together - not here?"

Mikasa pursed her lips for a moment like she was considering his offer, but then she leaned her head to one side, as if she was too tactful to shake it outright.

"I don't date my employees," she answered flatly, but then her voice turned up at the end like her lips at one corner. "But I'm flattered."

Jean groaned and let his head drop back onto his folded arm, making futile wishes for a delete button for his big, stupid mouth. The fleeting feelings of assurance he'd had looking at her only moments before began to evaporate, and he wondered to himself where the hell they'd even come from. Her dismissal felt like some something he'd lived before, and it only made him feel more nauseous. He pointedly avoided thoughts of a past life, thoughts that always led back to Marco. Mikasa twisted away the tiny smile on her mouth and looked at him with an almost motherly concern.

"Aren't you with someone, Jean?" He raised his head and an eyebrow to give her a questioning look - he couldn't remember ever mentioning his private life to his boss. Mikasa touched her fingers to her mouth in a polite gesture of restraint. "I'm sorry if that's too personal. I just assumed--"

"Not anymore," he cut in. "We're not together anymore. They... weren't exactly who I thought they were."

Mikasa nodded, but then looked down at her hands and shrugged. "Who is, though?"

Jean stared at her, waiting for her to elaborate, but she didn't offer anything further. He scoffed and picked up a pen, tapping it absently on his desk. "I don't know what - or who - makes you say that, but I just didn't really like being lied to, personally. So I cut it off."

She nodded again, scooting forward to the edge of the seat to lay her hand on his desk. "No one is perfect, even if they seem that way at first." Jean was about to snap at her about giving him a lecture, but she leaned in closer, fingers touching his arm just enough to catch and keep his attention. "But I think if you can forgive someone, you should. Life is too short and too lonely to hold on to negativity. In the end we're all looking for someone who doesn't exist." She wasn't looking at him as she said the last words, but rather through him, and he wondered if they were meant for him at all. She shook her head after a moment and met his eyes again, her face noticeably less concentrated. "But I'm just your boss. I can't tell you what to do. I just hate seeing one of my employees feeling like you seem to be lately."

_One of her employees_.

It echoed in his mind and reminded him of what an ass he'd made of himself with his feeble attempt at asking her out. It also made him think about just how few real friends he had in Maria, and suddenly the town that seemed so cozy and welcoming when he was exploring it with Marco loomed in his mind like a cold, massive, void. He frowned. In front of him, Mikasa stood to leave his office, patting his arm as she moved to her feet. He glanced up and gave her a small, tight smile.

"Well thanks for checking on me. I promise I'll get my ass in gear." He dropped the pen and rubbed at his temples, already overwhelmed at the thought of trying to keep that promise. "Sorry to worry you," he mumbled, and watched her head for the door. Once she was there she turned on her heel, like she'd suddenly remembered something.

"Oh, I wanted to mention something before the long weekend. There was a memo in my email this morning about a CTO position that opened up in one of our other branches, and they're looking to fill from within. Not sure if you'd be interested, but I wanted to make you aware of it."

Jean blinked and replayed her words in his sleep deprived mind. "A transfer?"

"Only if you're interested, of course. We like having you here, but if you're looking for a change of scenery..." Her voice was softer, more personal as she trailed off. Jean looked down and away, hating himself for letting his boss get even a glimpse of how entirely fucked up his life had become. He swallowed and nodded, refusing to meet her eye.

"I'll think about it. Thanks."

"Alright. If I don't see you again before then, have a nice Thanksgiving, Jean."

Mikasa tapped her hand against the door so he could hear her leave, and then he was alone in his office again, staring down at his messy desk and wishing he could melt into the pathetic puddle he felt like.

\--

"Heard you were hittin' on the boss!"

The day before any holiday had never been a favorite time for Jean; he hated the way people got frantic and made themselves frazzled over nothing. But Connie's teasing was making him feel the pre-holiday stress in spades. When Connie asked that question - grinning like the complete ass that he was - Jean ripped his takeout bag, dumping his lunch all over the break room table.

"And who the hell told you that?" He glowered at Connie, who continued to smile, sipping his massive drive thru sweet tea and slowly sliding his eyes toward Bertholdt. Bert winced when he noticed.

"Sweet. Thanks, Bert. Fucking traitor, I swear." His words were far more harsh than his tone - even if Bert couldn't keep his mouth shut, he was still more tactful than Connie. "Stupid, thin-ass office walls," Jean grumbled. Bert shrugged back at him sheepishly and Jean just shook his head, gathering the contents of his lunch back up in front of him. Connie wasn't as quick to let things drop.

"Thought things were getting pretty serious with you and story boy. That not working out? He finally figure out that he was too cool for you?"

Jean grimaced at the mention of Marco, even without hearing his name. "You're a grade-A jackass, you know that, Con?"

Connie's smile didn't slip, and for a moment Jean considered just schlepping his lunch back to his office to eat in peaceful silence. Instead he kicked one of the legs of Connie's chair and enjoyed the way that smug grin finally wavered when he wobbled and nearly fell.

"Thanks, dick." Connie settled the chair's legs evenly back on the floor and then looked back at Jean. "So you got plans for Thanksgiving tomorrow?"

Jean shook his head. "Considering you apparently already know everything about my personal life, I would've assumed you had that figured out. I'm gonna be at home eating pizza like a fucking loser."

"Why don't you come have dinner with me and Sash?"

Jean blinked at him, expressionless for a moment. He was caught off guard by more than just the offer of hospitality from a guy like Connie; he had expected to spend the following day locked away in his apartment wallowing in his bitterness. The thought of doing anything else rubbed against the grain of the reclusive safety net he'd woven for himself since he'd left Marco. But Connie was smiling in a way that wasn't his usual asinine smirk, and the promise of a decent meal with other human beings was more appealing than Jean was prepared to admit.

"I don't wanna barge in on your family stuff, dude," he finally responded. "Otherwise I wouldn't mind." It was the truth, something Jean wasn't used to anymore. Connie waved dismissively.

"Just gonna be us, man. It's our first one in the new place. Her family is all hours away, and mine are going to a wedding out of town for my cousin that I'd rather choke on a turkey bone than sit through. So we'll have room at the table. You in?"

"Sure," Jean answered right away, knowing that if he thought about it too long he'd talk himself out of it. "Text me tonight and let me know exactly what's going on. I'll be there."

Connie clapped him on the shoulder and nodded, then turned back to his own lunch. Jean reached for his drink and tried not to wish it was something a little stronger than tea.

\--

Jean wasn't sure why he was surprised that Sasha was such an excellent cook, given the alarming amount of food that both she and Connie were capable of putting down. Dinner with the two of them was an interesting experience, and with the spread Sasha put on, Jean spent more time tasting everything than talking. It was a pleasant distraction. Connie more than made up for his silence though, and despite or maybe because of that, conversation was as comfortable as his seat at their table. At least until the topic shifted from work and sports to things that were a little more personal.

"So what happened with you and Bodt? Seems like such a great guy - how'd you manage to screw that up?"

Connie's teasing question hung in the air for a moment, Sasha's mouth hanging with it. She turned to glare incredulously at him and smack him with the back of a wooden spoon. While he was wincing and rubbing his head, she turned to Jean and frowned apologetically.

"You don't have to talk about it, Jean. Really." Her tone was genuine, but Jean could tell that behind her soft expression, she was curious too.

"It's not a big deal," he said quickly, anxious to change the subject. He was there to forget about how badly he'd screwed up, not talk about his mistakes over dinner. But the cork was already popped on his thoughts, and he couldn't stop his mind from racing back to Marco. His insistence that he had somehow brought everyone in Jean's new life together in Maria resounded in Jean's head, and he looked back at Connie and Sasha with a vacant stare, lost in wondering how much he could even believe. They traded a worried glance, and a question cropped up in his mind; he asked, because anything was better than having to talk about his complete wreck of a love life.

"So how did _you guys_ meet?"

Sasha looked back at him cautiously, and Jean realized he was probably still wearing the gloomy expression he usually got when he thought about things for too long. He forced a smile, and though she didn't seem to buy it, she decided against pushing for an explanation and looked back at Connie with a half smile of her own.

"Not much of an exciting story with us, boss." Connie shrugged, a grin beginning to tug at his lips looking back at Sasha. "We just met here in town."

"In Maria?" Jean asked coolly, trying to seem conversational. Both of the Springers nodded.

"Probably wouldn't have ever bumped into each other if she didn't move here when she did," Connie smiled. "We actually ended up as neighbors in my old apartment complex."

"Number eight and number nine!" Sasha laughed, amused at some joke that was clearly just between she and Connie. "It was weird, I just felt this _pull_ to relocate here. Like it was meant to be. And things moved so fast after we met - it was like a movie or something!"

_Or a story._

Jean's chest felt tight, but he sat back in his chair and tried to relax. "That's cool. Guess it's a good thing you both ended up in Maria, then." Part of him felt like he should mention Marco's story to them, tell them that they might have been forced into Maria against their will. After all, people weren't really supposed to meet and instantly fall head over heels for each other - or was that something that only bothered _him?_ They were fools, pawns in a game they knew nothing about, and they were... _happy_. Watching the way they grinned at each other, he was fairly certain that their will was very much to be right where they were. Maybe this was a game _without_ losers.

"You guys said you used to go hear Marco speak a lot, right?"

They turned to him with decidedly stiffer smiles, and Connie nodded hesitantly. "Yeah. Those were some of our first dates. Why, man?"

"I just... what were some of the stories he told back then? Before I started going?"

Connie frowned and snuck another glance at Sasha before answering. "Jean, we don't have to talk about that, man. You ain't gotta make yourself feel worse if--"

"I don't think it will. Just - I'm just asking a question. Humor me."

Sasha scooted her chair closer to the table and laid her head in her hands. "Well, my favorite were the ones about a couple of people that - and this is gonna sound ridiculous, but - two people that reminded me of Connie and I." She looked down at the ring on her hand and spun it idly, smiling at a memory. "That's stupid, I know, but it was like his stories kind of... convinced me to see Connie for the great guy that he was, and... yeah. I guess you could say those were my favorites." Connie laughed over her shoulder and Jean swallowed the burn in his throat. Sasha looked back at him, saw his undoubtedly awkward expression and cleared her throat.

"But, I mean - I liked other ones too. Like the ones about the reluctant soldier," she said quickly. "He told about half a dozen of those. Last one I remember was actually right before you showed up that first night, so I think you missed all of those."

"Soldier?" Jean asked, remembering Marco's claim that they had all been brothers in arms in a past life. Sasha nodded, smiling in fond remembrance.

"There were a bunch of different ones, but they all had the same character. He was a soldier that wanted to just fade into the background, and have a comfortable life. He didn't wanna deal with all the scary stuff going on around him, so he ignored it. But he had a friend who pushed him to see that he was better than that, and convinced him that he could be a leader, and control his own fate. He didn't realize how right his friend was until he lost him, though." She finished her sentence with something akin to the flair Marco usually told his stories with, and it made Jean's stomach twist. What's more, the mention of a soldier's lost friend snapped the horrifying images from his nightmares back into focus in his mind's eye. He shook his head and exhaled sharply to try to push them away.

"You alright, man?" Connie's voice was distant in the mire of his thoughts, but Jean nodded absently, trying not to look as checked out as he was.

"Yeah, I just... have a lot on my mind," he replied. It was almost painful how much of the truth wasn't in his response, but he didn't want to tell them any more - he didn't even want to talk about Marco, think about him, know about him at all. He was so confused, and the worst part of feeling like ice was settling in his chest was knowing that he had chosen for it to be there. It seemed like maybe Marco wasn't lying to him, at least not entirely. His story might've been true - real, as incredible as it seemed - and Jean wasn't ready to deal with it. He was the reluctant soldier, and thinking about that only made things worse.

When Sasha suggested they go for an after dinner walk around their already festively decorated block, Jean agreed hastily. He would save his mess of uncomfortable thoughts for later. The conversation turned to Christmas shopping and obnoxious tourists and football and anything else the three of them could come up with as they lapped the city block a few times, and Jean had never been so relieved to simply waste time. The weeks ahead should've been exciting, with the winter holidays on the horizon. But on their stroll around the neighborhood - seeing Sasha's hand in Connie's - the chill in the air settled inside of him and made 'Happy Holidays' hard to fathom.

\--

_Shards of bone and clumps of foul smelling ash litter the ground. He scoops up a handful, holding it with all the tenderness he regrets never using before now, and chokes back the tears threatening to finish destroying him. It's too late._

_"Marco - I can't even tell which bones are yours anymore."_

\--

The dreams continued, but the crippling fear that they had left him with began to be replaced by a feeling of broken longing. Loss was a common theme, each time watching the soldier boy that looked like Marco slip through his fingers and leave him wishing for one more conversation, one more touch of the hand that would never come. He stopped waking up in the cold sweat of panic, and instead greeted the mornings with skin tight from drying tears.

_Sinking to his knees helplessly, grasping at falling ashes and scattered remains, kissing the hand that had held what was left of a lost friend_ \- every night it was a different piece of the puzzle, each as painful as the last. In every dream, he was dressed in boots and straps, the faces around him lit by the fire they stared into together. Soldiers mourning a fallen comrade, nothing more - yet something about the reoccurring scene was heavy with the sadness of a genuine memory. Jean hated waking - bitter and broken - almost as much as he dreaded falling asleep.

After too many weeks avoiding the one source of comfort he had left - and too many nights, frightened to sleep for fear of his dreams - he pulled his sketch pads from beneath his bed on a Monday morning, and flipped to a blank page. The violence and heartbreak that had haunted his consciousness were still not as painful as the loneliness that followed him. After a few absent minded sketches that ended up with little more than a few lines each, he let an image spill from his mind to the paper, the way he really needed to. Within a few minutes a familiar freckled face was looking back at him from the page, a rendering of a scene from one of his reoccurring dreams.

A fire behind him, light emanating from his features, the boy that looked like Marco smiled back at him, looking down at a morose Jean. It was an image he'd seen at the conclusion of one too many nights, the finale of his death-filled dreams. He was always left, collapsed to his knees, staring up into a fire that separated him from the soldier boy forever. Every time he would feel the crush of his chest, aching with loss and regret, and every time, a shining, spiritual version of the beautiful freckled boy would appear amidst the flames and speak to him, give him a sad but soothing final smile, and then disappear. Jean sketched and shaded until that angelic face was smiling back at him, from a place where he could hold onto it - and his pride - a little longer.

He finished the drawing and didn't bother to close the book, collecting it up with the rest of his things and dropping it into the passenger's seat of his car. It was a little pathetic - ok, _really_ pathetic - that he was looking forward to glancing at it after work, maybe even on his breaks, but he didn't really care anymore. He felt better, and it helped the work day go by faster. That was enough.

\--

Jean skipped out on lunch with his coworkers that day, opting to hole up in his office and stare at a hand drawn smile instead. By the time he clocked out he was starving, and in no mood to deal with cooking. Not usually one to shop in the bustling downtown stores, he chastised himself from his place in the near endless checkout line of Central Grocery for caving to a craving for microwaved junk on his way home from work.

Standing in line, he traced patterns across the tiled floor with his eyes, counting green and white squares and staring at the shoes of the people in other long lines. He looked the strangers up and down, wondering how many of their faces he'd seen before, but couldn't remember because of how crowded his mind was when he and Marco would walk the streets of Maria. Looking the other customers over, he caught sight of a familiar looking brown jacket, with a heavy dark green coat thrown over the person's shoulder as they waited for the cashier to finish their transaction. Staring too hard, for too long, Jean was spotted when the man turned around, and flashed a sweet, sad smile that Jean was painfully familiar with.

_Marco_.

It was as if life had been breathed into his drawing from that morning. Marco smiled over his shoulder, exactly the way he had in Jean's dream - a sweet glaze across a face broken with loss. It was the first time he'd seen that smile in his waking hours in weeks. Jean froze, paralyzed by anxiety and confusion. He couldn't raise a hand to wave, couldn't lift his face to smile in return. People pushed past him in line as he stood like stone, looking back at Marco.

After a moment of this pause, Marco's sad smile slipped away and so did he, leaving without stopping to talk to Jean. Jean stared after him - still frozen in place - and could only breathe again when he was completely out of sight. Shaking himself from his shock, Jean abandoned his basket of groceries and ran out into the parking lot, looking around frantically for the dark red sedan Marco drove. But it was gone, and as Jean bent forward to clutch his knees and catch his breath, he wondered why he'd expected anything else.

\--

Disgusting.

That's how he branded himself after spending an hour crying in his car and the remainder of an evening lying on his couch with a migraine and a twisted stomach. It was a word he used to mentally describe the way he cowered from the one thing he knew he should do; he was too afraid to face Marco directly, still too embarrassed by his actions and by the fact that he'd been wrong. So he hid himself from the possibility of having to actually speak to him, secretly hoping to instead pass him by, and get another glimpse from a distance. He was distraught. He was desperate. And it was disgusting.

As November rolled over into December and the wind cut against his skin when he ventured outside, he found himself spending most of his time loitering around the places they'd visited together, hoping impractically that Marco would turn up at one of them. He walked aimless laps around the gravel path of the empty park, bought dozens of lattes at The Rose Wall, and drank all of them alone, waiting for someone to bump into his chair and take the empty seat beside him. He even considered going back to Lake Sina, but stepping into a place that was so entirely entwined with Marco in his mind felt too risky. What would he even do if he saw him again? What would he say - what could he? He still didn't know how he felt about Marco's outlandish life story, but he was fairly certain he didn't deserve to be a part of it anymore, and that kept him from getting too close to facing him again.

One place he always saw Marco was in his dreams, still right beside him, despite what he knew from countless other dreams was on the horizon. Every one ended in Marco slipping away forever, but he began to dread them less as he became more desperate for those nightly moments with a man he was too scared - too damned stubborn - to face in person. Even if they wouldn't last forever, he clung to the way the boy who looked like Marco would smile at him and say his name like it was the highest praise to be offered. Some nights he would wake before the battle stole the freckled soldier away from him, and it was on those nights that he would refuse to go back to sleep, no matter the time. He needed to preserve the feeling of Marco next to him, alive and glowing from the inside out with energy that Jean himself could scarcely imagine mustering. It gave him strength on sleepless mornings, but weighed him down by the day's end, dragging him back to bed hopeful and frightened of what he would see in his dreams.

He wouldn't draw the things he saw anymore. As much as he wished to see Marco again, he was also shaken by the strange coincidence from the grocery store, and despite the fact that his skeptical nature screamed at him every time he entertained the thought, he was too afraid to chance having it happen again. So when he was at home, he would pour over his sketchbook, flipping back and forth between doodles he'd done and staring at them until he'd memorized every line and freckle. The more he looked at them, the less harsh his dreams became at night, until the deaths at the end of each one began to taper off. Soon, the dreams were pointless, scattered images of nothing but Marco, all other faces and voices fading into the haze of a background that no longer existed. On the morning of Christmas Eve, he woke from a vision that had become familiar; Marco waiting for him at a table with a drink in front of him, smiling anxiously back at Jean as he approached. Maybe it was just the promise of the distraction of arriving family that evening, but Jean greeted the day with a small smile, the first in a very long time.

\--

His mother fussed over his noticeably thinner waistline. His father asked him questions about work that Jean didn't even know the answer to. And between phone calls to his grandparents and Skype calls with his cousins, Jean was glad when everyone headed back to their hotels for the evening. Though his condo was spacious and comfortable, his mother had insisted on booking a room for she and his father so as not to impose on Jean while in town. Jean suspected they wanted to take in some of the tacky tourist culture of the downtown streets as well, but he was grateful for the solitude. The last thing he wanted was to explain to his parents why he woke in the middle of the night gasping for breath and frightened of nothing in particular.

Christmas morning was just as busy as the day before, but Jean drank in the bustle without protest. More than the gifts passed around by his family, he was thankful for the gift of their presence. He was so fortunate - he'd always been - to have such happiness in his life. Pouring coffee for his parents as they sat in his living room, he glanced out the window at the way the wind blew the decorations his complex supervisors had affixed to his balcony along with all of the others. Even in the brightness of the morning, the clear lights were still on, their strings shivering with the breeze. They took his mind back to the lights twinkling in the trees around Lake Sina, the night he and Marco had walked around it together. He wondered what Marco was doing right then, that Christmas morning, and then remembered with a wince the story of Marco growing up with no family to speak of. He took a sip of numbingly hot black coffee and grimaced.

He had so much. His home was nicer than he really needed, he had a good job, a secure future, and a past full of family and friends that he could look back on fondly. He had never stopped to count those things as blessings, but when the thought occurred to him that morning, he felt entirely undeserving. The people around him - the ones Marco had apparently brought together - were so happy, and he had every reason to be as well. His life was wonderful. But he didn't merit it, especially after he'd all but spat in the face of the person who had indirectly designed his situation for him. The book in the Voodoo shop had implied that his life might be entirely in the hands of a 'Raconteur', and the thought had chased him for weeks. Standing there in his kitchen that morning, it finally caught up to him and knocked the breath from his lungs.

Marco had never done him any wrong, even before they met.

Marco had done nothing but care about him, maybe even outside of his control. Jean tried to swallow the bitter taste in his mouth - maybe from the coffee, maybe something else - and thought about Marco's words, Marco's face, Marco's fingers pulling at his before he stomped out that last day. _Marco_.

He took the mugs to his parents and made shallow, easy conversation until they left him for the day with hugs and holiday wishes. His sketchbook was in his lap before a second cup of coffee had even cooled. He had to see that face again, even if it was in black and white.

The scene from his dream the night before was what he chose to render on the empty page, spending extra time drawing the worry lines that had creased the boy's forehead, just a little as he looked back at Jean anxiously. Jean looked down at his drawing with a sad smile; at least the soldier boy didn't have reason to despise him. He finished the details - the cup in his hands, the jacket slung over his shoulders, the shine of his eyes - and laid the sketchbook beside him on his couch. He stared at the drawing long enough that in his mind, the background began to resemble the park that wrapped around Lake Sina, and the Marco looking back from the paper became _his_ Marco. Or rather, the Marco that had once been his.

He folded the book closed and tucked it under his arm. With his family gone until the next afternoon and the usually cramped streets of Maria probably vacant on account of the holiday, he decided to distract himself with a change of scenery. Driving with his mind anywhere other than the road in front of him, he took turn after aimless turn, and found himself on vaguely familiar roads. A sign indicated that Lake Sina was only a few blocks further, and he pulled into the makeshift parking lot of the area before he could think better of it.

The little courtyard appeared vacant, to Jean's relief. Despite its emptiness, the lights in the trees still glistened, now sparkling from behind bows and tinsel fastened to the branches just the way Marco had promised that they would be. Jean smiled at them in spite of himself, and sat in the warmth of his car for a while, just looking at the decorations from a distance.

The weak winter sunlight shone on the still surface of the lake, casting a soft glow on the white walls that surrounded it. He was reminded of the Christmas snows he'd grown up seeing, states away in the northeast. He'd yet to see a single flake fall that winter in Maria, but the beautiful stone walls were enough to make him feel a faint reflection of the excitement that Christmas morning snow had brought him as a child. Knowing that he wasn't likely to return to the lake any time soon, he decided to sketch what he saw, so he could remember the more pleasant feelings of his holiday in Maria. He winced at the loud crack of his car's door shutting in the peaceful silence of the lake shore park, and pulled the collar of his coat tighter around his neck as he headed for one of the benches situated near the walkway.

He chose the one he and Marco had sat on, and thought about powdered sugar and a warm hand in his. He pulled his sketchbook from a bag and dropped it open on his lap, shoving his empty hand into his pocket. With every intention of drawing the scenery around him, Jean lost himself instead to looking back over his sketch from before, at the soldier boy sitting at the table, alone. He sighed, feeling his inspiration evaporating as his loneliness resurfaced to still his hands. A whisper-quiet sound nipped at his ears like the chill of the wind, and he glanced up and out, over the water. Someone was sitting at one of the small wrought iron tables gathered at the other side of the walkway, and they were looking back at Jean. Their familiar face wore an anxious expression that Jean had seen before; he looked down at his drawing, and then back up at the scene in front of him, chest tight when he realized they were nearly identical.

"Marco," he breathed, hands flying to toss his book and bag to the side. He jumped from his seat and moved toward where Marco was sitting, a drink in his hands and a coat clinging to his shoulders, just the way Jean had dreamt him - the way Jean had drawn him. He wouldn't let this be another close encounter. He stopped a few yards short of where Marco sat, silently pleading him to stay and talk, even if Jean knew he didn't deserve that chance.

Marco stared at him, both of them frozen for a moment, save for the shaking of his hands around his cup. He pushed it aside and stood, turning to face Jean and dropping his hands to his sides to tug at the hem of his coat.

"Jean..." he barely breathed it, but it rang in Jean's ears - the first time in ages he'd heard that voice anywhere but in his dreams. Marco looked like he might step closer, but he didn't. He stopped where he stood and shivered. "I... I'm so sorry. I can't - I never--"

"Seriously?" Jean laughed before he could stop hinself. He smacked a hand over his mouth and wiped at it hard, shaking his head in disbelief that after all he'd done - all he'd royally fucked up - Marco was apologizing to _him_. "God, Marco. You are unbelievable."

"I'm sorry," he repeated. His voice was so small. Jean twisted his mouth to keep the quivering frown pulling at his lips from making things worse.

_"I'm_ sorry." he sighed, cracking his knuckles anxiously. He wasn't good at apologies, but he was even worse at living with his guilt - and without Marco. "Look, I'm still pissed about a lot of things. But I also realize I don't really have a right to be. I'm--" he heaved another sigh, trying to keep his throat from tightening. "I'm just an ass."

Marco chewed on his bottom lip and then nodded. "Kind of."

Jean looked down at the decorated stone walking path under their feet. "I think I _get_ some things now. Not totally, but..." He forced himself to look up at Marco, to meet the spellbinding eyes that he needed to have focused on him, even if it was only long enough for him to make his point. "I think maybe the reason I fell for you so hard is because I was _supposed_ to. Not because anyone forced me or anything." He swallowed and shrugged, glancing down at Marco's nervously fidgeting hands. "But because we just... fit."

"So are you saying you believe me?" Marco asked. Jean took a few strides toward him, and he didn't back away.

"I'm saying I believe _in_ you. I still don't know how I feel about the rest of it. But I know how I feel about you."

Marco edged toward him, his expression still hesitant. "I... don't want you faking anything, Jean." His voice was wavering with uncertainty that sounded so unlike him, and Jean could feel the shaking in his chest. Marco shook his head, looking away like he was refusing to allow himself to cry. "I tried so hard not to hurt you - I would never force you to--"

"This was real, Marco," Jean interrupted, stepping forward to close the last few feet between them. _"Is_ real. I think maybe it was just too real for me." He laid a hand on Marco's arm, half expecting him to pull away. He needed to feel him, to know that Marco was really there, not about to disappear when he woke from another dream. When Marco didn't recoil, he stepped up to bring them almost flush together. "I usually hide from shit like that, I'm not used to it. But I don't wanna do that. Now that I know _you_ \--"

Marco stole the rest of his sentence, cutting him off with a kiss and wrapping arms around his neck. Jean hummed against his lips, relieved to the point of tears that Marco's movements were as desperate as his own. Marco's hands slid down his back, and Jean pushed up onto his toes and draped his own arms over Marco's shoulders, whispering what were supposed to be more apologies between kisses, but that came out as a broken chant of _I love you, I missed you, I need you so much_. When they finally pulled back to look at each other, Marco's face was red from the cold and flushed from their kissing and Jean had never seen anything more beautiful, even in his dreams.

"Does this mean I've got a shot at getting you back?" he asked breathlessly. When Marco rolled his eyes, he laughed a little too loudly and grinned a little too wide. Marco laid his arms across Jean's shoulders, and it made it hard to care that they were standing alone in the chilly air of the lakeside park, laughing like idiots. Marco looked down at him when they were both able to stop for a moment, and nudged his nose against Jean's.

"I think we both know how this story is supposed to end."

\--


	9. Epilogue

"So the guy that moved in across the hall from me and the new secretary chick at the county clerk's office - that's two more off the list right there!"

Jean lay sprawled on Marco's bed, a pencil between his teeth and Marco's reading glasses perched on his nose. 'The list' was a hand scribbled collection of names he had begun collecting shortly after the start of the new year. It was a constantly updated spreadsheet of sorts, where Jean kept track of the people Marco had brought to Maria - back into his life, like he was supposed to - and of the ones he had yet to find. Jean was usually a stickler for using Excel when it came to list making, but somehow this task seemed better suited to something a little more organic. By mid-January, it had become a messy stack of post it notes and scrap paper.

Sometimes the people on the list had names; the two newest were Franz and Hannah, names that struck Jean as familiar the moment he learned them. Sometimes they only had descriptions to go on, from dreams Marco would pour out to Jean before weaving them into stories to tell his audience when the weather was warmer. Jean drew a lot of them, people he'd never met before but who almost always matched his artwork perfectly once he did. After a few successes, he started to relax into the role of assistant to Marco's task. He might have even enjoyed it, but that was just a little more than he was willing to admit to.

Marco nodded from his place on the bed across from Jean. "Two down, quite a few more to go. The pace has been dragging a little bit since you became my only listener."

"Hey, what are you saying?" Jean asked with dramatic mock offense. He pushed the list away from himself and rolled over. "Am I not enough of a crowd for you? I happen to be a very good listener."

"You're an easily distracted listener," Marco corrected, wearing a lopsided grin. "I usually don't get much _talking_ done."

"Well that's _your_ fault, Mr. Perfect. How am I supposed to focus on words when they're coming from a mouth like yours? And you've got that whole fucking _drawer_ full of distractions - that's not my problem."

Jean glanced toward Marco's dresser and then stretched, intentionally baring just enough of his lightly bruised hips to catch Marco's attention, making his point. He reached down and ran fingers across the marks, pouting theatrically when Marco grinned. Jean had gotten used to the fact that Marco was almost incapable of being marked up - residual, protective magic that helped ensure he would make it through life to complete his task - but not completely over his jealousy that Marco got to enjoy the way Jean bruised like a damned peach. Still, he loved the way his reddened and rope-burned skin captured and held Marco's lustful stares, and was having more than a little fun watching the storyteller try to compose his thoughts while he twisted on the bed in front of him.

"Be that as it may," Marco continued, his eyes flashing crimson and with more than a touch of smugness in his voice. "I have a lot of work to do. Lots of stories to tell this spring if we're ever going to get anywhere." He laid a hand heavily onto Jean's hip to still him and give him a warning look, though it was still entirely affectionate.

Jean sighed and nodded, trying to hide the little grin he always got whenever Marco talked about the work he did with words like 'we'. It had taken Jean a while to embrace it, but a little bit of Marco's magic seemed to have seeped into his artwork, too - like every other aspect of his life - and it only made Jean feel more complete, more assured that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. He tilted his head to give Marco his full attention, the grin winning out as he did.

"For instance, Franz and Hannah are actually supposed to end up together," Marco continued. "They were partners in the previous life - well matched ones, too."

"Like Connie and Sasha?" Jean asked.

Marco nodded.

"Like _us?"_

This time Marco reached forward and pulled Jean toward him, a smile stretching across his face. "Like us," he repeated, and closed the gap between them for a kiss. When he pulled away he continued talking, amused at how decidedly more interested Jean seemed to be. "Getting people together can be the hardest part. You wouldn't believe how easily you can miss someone in a town this size."

"Yes I would," Jean said quietly, and there was a beat of strained silence before Marco reached up to stroke hair over his ear, a gesture that had become shorthand for 'I forgive you'. Jean leaned into the touch and closed his eyes. Resting against Marco, he remembered the weeks they'd spent apart, and the way everyone in Maria seemed to be pointing him back toward the storyteller. His friends, his neighbors, his boss.

His boss.

Jean thought of the sullen expression on Mikasa's face when she told him to be grateful for Marco, that she was 'searching for someone that didnt exist'. He remembered his dreams, when he would see her face among the dozens of other familiar smiles, always next to a boy with shaggy brown hair and large, gold-green eyes. Jean was sure it was the boy he had seen several times in the crowd at the park. The monster boy from Marco's stories, who he'd been briefly introduced to one evening as 'Eren'. It dawned on him that maybe they had more people to match up than Marco was even aware of.

"So you're saying you help people who are supposed to be grouped up bump into each other?" he asked. Marco nodded, a little cautiously, even more so when Jean grinned thoughtfully. "Then I think I have a favor to ask."

\--

"Someone got laid this weekend!"

Jean turned around to glare at Connie, but he couldn't wipe the grin off of his face in time.

"Jealous, Springer?" he quipped. Connie rolled his eyes and flopped down in the chair across from Jean's desk.

"Just wondering what that dick-eating grin is about, boss." He threw his feet up onto Jean's desk; Jean shoved them to the side and smirked when Connie almost fell out of his chair.

"How about _you_ eat a dick and get the hell outta my office?" Jean said flatly, but when Connie barked with laughter he couldn't help chuckling too.

"So I'm gonna take a wild guess and say I was right, then. You back with story boy?"

He wanted to say something snarky, but thinking about the last few weeks he'd had with Marco made it hard to be sour, even with Connie Springer. "Yeah," he answered directly, for once in the entirety of their friendship, and then quieter - with more reluctance - he mumbled, "and I guess I should probably thank you and Sasha."

"Is that so?" Connie was obviously ready to make a spectacle out of wrenching Jean's gratitude out of him, so Jean decided not to give him the pleasure. He cut straight to the point with his response, effectively disarming him.

"Yeah. For convincing me to go check out the thing in the park, letting me crash your Thanksgiving dinner, talking me through some things and just generally dealing with the sad sack of shit that I was then - I actually owe you guys a lot. So thanks."

Connie was speechless for a moment, but then leaned up across Jean's desk to shake his hand, and pull him into a one armed hug despite the stretch.

"Any time, man. Just good to see you doin' ok for once, boss." His voice was thick with a sincerity that Jean had never heard from him before, and he was almost a little relieved when Mikasa tapped at the open door of his office while he and Connie stood - still hugging - inside.

"Glad to see you two making such productive use of your time," she remarked, raising an eyebrow and the corner of her mouth, just slightly. She turned to face Jean and leaned, cross legged against the door frame. "I came to ask you about that transfer position. The email I got this morning said they needed to fill it by the end of this month, so they wanted to know if I had any interested candidates. Have you given it any more thought?"

Connie glanced between them with a genuinely surprised expression; Jean hadn't mentioned the talk of a transfer to anyone else in the office. But he shook his head reassuringly in Connie's direction before turning back to Mikasa with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"I appreciate you letting me know about it, but I think I've decided I'm gonna stay here in Maria for the foreseeable future." He glanced back at Connie who had relaxed back into his chair with a relieved smile. Mikasa smiled too, and Jean knew he was making the right decision. "I think I'm right where I belong."

"Good to hear," said Mikasa, and stepped farther into his office. "In that case, I've got something I'd like to ask of you. As you know we had a few resignations over the holiday break, so I've got a few new hires that will need trained. Only one in your department, but if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to have him shadow you for the rest of the week while he gets familiar with everything."

"Sounds doable," Jean agreed. Mikasa nodded.

"Great." She turned to leave, exchanging smiles with Connie as she did. "He'll be in this afternoon. Mr. Arlert, I believe his name was. Armin. Real stand out. He'll be a good addition to our team." She left with a wave and Jean looked down at the calendar on his desk, a smile slowly stretching across his face at the mention of the new employee's name. It was a name he recognized, fairly sure that he knew it from his dreams of the other soldiers from he and Marco's mysterious past life. And it was a name that sounded like friendship, pleasant to Jean's ear. He grinned back up at Connie who was leaving for lunch, and then pulled his cell phone from his desk drawer to text Marco.

**I think we can cross another name off the list.**

\--

Spring came early to the breezy city of Maria, as Jean would learn in years to come was just part of life there. The weather was beautiful on those windy days before the muggy heat of summer settled in, and he had never been so pleased to be sprawled on blankets and surrounded by crowds. Marco's stories continued to dazzle his listeners, and inspire art that inspired change in the lives of people around he and Jean. Despite how much the few people lucky enough to glimpse Jean's sketch books raved, he still kept his drawings to himself, sharing them only with Marco by way of hanging some of them - finished and framed - on the walls of Marco's small apartment. As he illustrated story after story, watched person after person drawn into the lives of others and matches of friends and lovers made, he began to wonder if his art would ever hang in a hall that he could call _theirs_ \- his and Marco's. That was when he knew he needed to break it to his mother that he probably wasn't ever moving back up north.

He grinned down at another finished drawing and closed his book, content to lie back and listen to the last words of Marco's most recent story and the satisfied clapping of the crowd. When everyone began to leave - Mikasa waving to him as she left with friends, Eren and Armin among them - Jean didn't bother moving. He let the crowd mingle with Marco and patiently waited for his attention; he knew he'd have _all_ of it soon enough.

Jean didn't know exactly what the future held for him in Maria, and he'd given up on trying to figure it out. His days were dreams and drawings and an absolutely perfect person that he'd almost been foolish enough to lose. Letting go of the fact that he couldn't change the past had helped him stop worrying about the future, and Marco's reassurances had pulled him by the hand into the realization that it was okay for someone else to hold the reins sometimes. His future was a book with blank pages rather than a written fate, but he was pretty sure that together, he and Marco could make it up as they went along.

There was more of their story yet to be told.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--
> 
> A TREMENDOUS THANK YOU to everyone who has been involved in this story from start to finish, with Deb being chief among them. ([She & her work can be found here!](http://lemonorangelime.tumblr.com/))Thank you for letting me put words into Marco's mouth, and tell Jean's story about falling in love with him. I've never had a more rewarding writing experience.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who has read/commented and/or left kudos on this, or will do so in the future - I'm so glad you decided to take time to share this with me. You're all wonderful & I hope you enjoyed the ride. :)


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